


i can't believe it's not (better)!

by intergaylactic



Series: elaborate coffeeshop au extravaganza [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, Youtube AU, and also claire from the bon appetit test kitchen, and by plans i mean the vaguest ideas that may go nowhere lmao, anyway i love dumb stuff and cute things, anyway pls enjoy lots of love make some peeps, so we'll see, that's right babey i have slow burn plans for this bad boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21615094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergaylactic/pseuds/intergaylactic
Summary: “What if we stopped calling it the Fourth Dimension, because that’s boring and dumb, and started calling it the Peep Dimension?”eddie kaspbrak is a chef in the bon appetit test kitchen, and stars in their youtube series "gourmet makes", where he gets to do fun stuff like spent two full weeks recreating gourmet twizzlers and sharing his first taki with the entire internet.richie tozier is a culinary school drop-out and former olive garden line cook, who runs a youtube channel where he does things like destroy his kitchen trying to make foods from movies and videogames.also he would, and i quote, "die for eddie kaspbrak from the ba test kitchen."
Relationships: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Eddie Kaspbrak
Series: elaborate coffeeshop au extravaganza [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567087
Comments: 231
Kudos: 473





	1. has eddie seen this? (no, he has not)

It begins on a Thursday, which makes sense, given that Eddie has never had a good Thursday once in his life. Thursday birthdays? Disaster. Thursday Christmases? Dreadful. Don’t get him started on the Thursday Thanksgiving of 2011, because it was one of the worst days of his life. 

So on Thursday morning, when Eddie wakes up at 6:45 am and cracks open one bleary eye to turn off his phone’s alarm, it makes sense that he sees Mike’s text. Of course it would start on a Thursday. 

**have you seen this????**

Eddie reads Mike’s text twice before his brain can fully comprehend what he’s looking at, and when he does he just puts the phone back down on his nightstand. Knowing Mike, it’s probably the third video of a goat bleating oddly that he’s sent around this week. Mike has an affinity for oddly-bleating goats, or oddly-quacking ducks, or any video where an animal does what it normally does, but oddly. No one has figured out how he finds so many of them or why those particular videos crack him up that much, but he has a new one to share at least once a week. Stan is convinced that @weirdanimal.sounds on Instagram is secretly Mike, but Mike always denies it. 

Eddie is mostly passive to Mike’s odd animal fascination, which is why he opts to put his phone down and crawl out of bed to go try and wake himself up in the bathroom instead. He has things to focus on right now, and all of them involve Eddie switching on his coffee pot while he brushes his teeth, and very little to do with a pig that oinks in its own unique way. 

He splashes some warm water on his face, clearing the crusted sleep away from his corneas, and goes about washing his face properly and patting some moisturizer onto his skin. He wakes up at 6:45 to get ready because he knows this alone takes him about fifteen minutes, partly because Eddie is not much of a morning person, and partly because his moisturizer smells faintly of blueberries and maybe he likes to revel in it too much. 

He pads back into his kitchen at 6:59, just in time to switch the coffee pot off and stop even a drop of it from burning. Eddie isn’t picky about many things - although maybe Stan would disagree, possibly with an added eye roll - but his coffee is one of them. 

The sun is bright outside, and Eddie can see the day rising through his kitchen window; it looks like the kind of early June morning that unfolds fresh, like spring-rain-fed flowers blooming. The a.c. in his apartment building is decent enough that he isn’t sticky from the heat, but he can feel the crisp warmth of early summer enough from that view that he debates making his coffee iced. Then he remembers what coffee tastes like with ice cubes melted in it, and he ignores the idea. 

Padding back into his bedroom, he picks out his outfit. They’re filming today, so he thinks about this for longer than his usual thirty seconds. Stan had turned him onto capsule wardrobes the previous autumn, and Eddie has softly adopted the practice himself: he keeps a stash of simple work clothes for the season, all matchable, plain colours and fabrics, which can mix and match without thought. But he has cheated, and left space for fun filming outfits and thrift store finds and the kind of nonsense that reminds him of going to gay bars for the first time in college. He still thinks he can rock a mesh shirt, though, so maybe this isn’t a totally bad idea. 

He remembers Mike’s message when he’s walking into the ferry station, headphones on and travel mug in hand. Eddie files onto the ferry to Manhattan amongst the rush hour throng, and finds a spot to stand by the bough, knowing it’s hopeless to try and find a seat. He opens the text and clicks the link, ready to spend the first half of his commute with some coffee and a decidedly odd goat. 

Instead, the link sends him to a Youtube video titled “i would die for eddie kapsbrak from the ba test kitchen”. Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee. 

* * *

  
  


“Do we have any milk?” 

Bev leans precariously into the kitchen, clinging to the wall, to see Richie Tozier, her roommate of two years and best friend of many more, standing in nothing but a pair of Spider-Man boxers, a smudge of flour on his forehead, surrounded by an army’s worth of baking ingredients. A camera is set up opposite their island, recording the scene like a tableau of the trials and tribulations of trying to be an adult after college. 

Bev leans back out of the kitchen, sighing to herself. 

“Bev? Beverly? Bevvie?” Richie calls. “Madam Marsh? Miss Marsh-un? Beaver-ly? Bevoluminous -?”

“God, yeah, okay,” Bev says, walking fully into the kitchen and, by consequence, into frame. She is wearing a tank top and pyjama shorts that say “eat the rich” on the ass, and resigns herself to the fact that this is almost a plus in the eyes of Richie’s audience. 

“Do we have any milk?” Richie repeats, now returning to the process of sifting flour. 

“I . . . didn’t you check?” Bev peers around at all of his supplies, brow furrowed, a small smile fighting its way onto her face. “Is this all the baking stuff we _have_?”

“Possibly.” Richie winks at the camera, over-exaggerated and nearly tipping his glasses off the bridge of his nose; Bev pushes them back up for him. “And no, I did not check, because this is emergency milk. I wasn’t supposed to need milk.” 

“And what is it that needs emergency milk?” Bev makes her way to the fridge to look inside, as if Richie hasn’t already done that - although, come to think of it, maybe he hasn’t. Sometimes he does get a bit side-tracked, and misses obvious stuff when he gets really into an idea. Like whatever it is he’s cooking now. 

“You ever seen _Beauty and the Beast_?” 

“Are we talking live action, or . . .?”

“Animated, Bev. I’m not a fool.” 

Bev turns slowly to level a flat stare directly into the camera. “And the evidence begs to differ.” 

“ _Anyway_!” Richie exclaims, sliding closer to Bev to stage-whisper in her ear; the air he blows at her tickles, and she shoves a graceless hand over her giggles. “Stop makin’ fun of me in front of the audience, they’re starting to like you more! And you can’t even cook!”

“I can cook!” Bev protests, hands on her hips. 

“Oh? And what, pray tell, dost thou cooketh, Miss Marsh?” Richie sets his bowl of flour down on the counter and begins puttering about in the fridge as he speaks. 

“I make fucking fan- _tastic_ potstickers!” 

“Potstickers?” Richie sticks his head out of the fridge to look at her, and Bev kind of wants to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. “You mean the frozen white-people dumplings you buy at Trader Joe’s?” 

“Fuck you,” Bev says without venom. 

“You wish you could!” Richie emerges from the fridge with a mini carton of milk held aloft, a Holy Grail for his baffling endeavour. “Behold!” 

“You keep yelling like this, and we’re gonna get another noise complaint,” Bev snarks, leaning back against the far kitchen counter, just behind Richie’s antics. She much prefers to hang in the back of his videos when he gets like this, offering quips and absolutely no help, a fun background presence. She only likes to be center stage when she knows the subject, and this is way out of her comfort zone. 

“The new upstairs people would never, they love me.” Richie grins at the camera. “I made them millionaire’s shortbread when they moved in, and now we’re, like, best friends.”

“You never make me millionaire’s shortbread!” Bev complains. 

“That’s because you never ask for it!”

“I absolutely do!” This is the fun part for Bev: the bickering, the dynamic that comes so naturally to the two of them, which feels more like a clever performance when they do it on camera. She gets to feel like an improv comedian for a few minutes, take a dip into another world than her own, and she does appreciate Richie’s openness with his videos for that experience. “God, let me be decadent! Why am I not allowed to have a Daisy Buchanan moment?”

“Probably because I don’t want you to hit anyone with your car.” 

“You know I don’t drive.” Bev filches a spare dried cranberry from a measuring cup full of them, balanced on a trio of baking cookbooks; Richie squawks in protest, but is too late to stop her. 

“God, I have my milk, get out of my kitchen.”

Bev knows that this is another bit - Richie would never tell her something so blatantly rude if it wasn’t a joke. That, and she can see the slight upturn of his eyes that has marked his jokes since they were teenagers. So she goes along with it, rolling her eyes dramatically. 

“Fine! Be that way!” She whirls around and stalks from the kitchen, back into their baking-free living room and the chaos of her temporary home office spread over the couch and coffee table. Bev resigns herself to writing up some more emails and finishing the wardrobe outline for her next shoot, trying to ignore the sounds of Richie’s nonsense coming from one room over. 

Richie is her best friend, and Bev admires him for doing what he has. When he told her he was dropping out of culinary school, Bev thought he was out of his mind; but now she sees why he wouldn’t have survived something like that. Richie has a fighting spirit, true enough, but he needs some liberties, some creativity, or he might lose the spark that keeps him going. So starting a Youtube channel purely because he had wanted to cook the fancy turkey burger from _Parks and Rec_ had been perhaps one of the best uses of his considerable skill in the kitchen. 

She also definitely likes the fanmail he gets, particularly the ones that come with snacks. She knows accepting food from complete strangers is likely a terrible idea, but when they had still been a couple of idiotic twentysomethings three years earlier, working shitty jobs and internships and trying to still afford to live in New York, Bev was not about to turn down free cupcakes. 

Richie has been clanging away for the better part of an hour when he sticks his head into the living room; somehow, he’s gotten more flour on himself, and has a smear of mystery grey stuff down the front of his apron. “Did you wanna try? I need another taste-tester.” 

Bev sighs, the sigh of the long-suffering, but stands anyway; abandoning her sixth bureaucratic email of the day feels just as good as she thought it might. 

“As long as you don’t poison me.” 

“I would never!” Richie clutches a hand over his heart, mocking offense as Bev passes by him and glides into the kitchen in her monkey socks. “Well, not intentionally.” 

* * *

  
  


**WHAT WAS THE GREY STUFF???? (making the feast from** **_Beauty and the Beast_ ** **)**

[Richie Tozier slides into view of the camera, wearing a Babar the Elephant apron and Spider-Man boxers; he is covered in baking ingredients.] 

“What’s up, nerds, I’m back and things are . . . well, I guess they could be going worse!” 

[Cut to a close-up of Beverly Marsh’s face as she takes a bite of something from a fork. She looks at Richie in disgust, and makes a gagging sound. She forces herself to swallow it, then glares at Richie.] 

“God, you are absolutely trying to poison me!” 

* * *

  
  


The Bon Appetit test kitchen is alive with the sounds of an early workday when Eddie arrives, walking with the determination of a man in a hurricane. Stan looks up from his laptop when Eddie passes him by, takes one look at the frown that has settled into the lines of his face, and turns right back to his inbox. 

He spots Mike three minutes after dropping his things at his desk, as he’s emerging from the pantry with his arms full of spices. His gaze meets Eddie’s and he smiles, a broader, brighter smile than any old unusual goat video would get out of him. Eddie frowns harder in response. 

“Did you watch it?” Mike asks, setting his precarious pile of spice tubs on Eddie’s desk. 

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” Eddie says with a shrug. 

He hadn’t. He had taken one look at that title and immediately clicked away from the video, opening up the next one in his recommendeds without thinking, just to escape whatever was waiting for him in the one Mike had sent. The rest of his commute had been spent in rumbling nervousness and the sounds of an ASMR tour of the Solar System. 

Eddie crumbles under about two more seconds of Mike’s questioning gaze. He’s a hard person to resist, and Eddie is nothing if not unfortunately honest with his friends. Maybe too honest, as Stan might argue. “Okay, so I didn’t watch it.” 

“What? The new Bachelor episode? Because I personally think that Marnie deserved better.” Stan pipes up from his desk, a mere ten feet away.

“You think that about, like, half the contestants,” Mike protests. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Stan sniffs, lips pursed the way they always get when Mike questions his opinions on the Bachelor. 

“You’re not,” Eddie says, partly because he wants to get the both of them away from him for the rest of the day, and partly because Stan is sort of almost definitely right. 

“Thank you,” Stan says, giving Eddie a small nod, and then instantly betrays him. “So what haven’t you seen then?” 

“Oh, shit, I forgot I didn’t send it to you!” Mike pulls his phone out of his back pocket, convincing Eddie that he’s the worst person he’s ever known, kind eyes and excellent brownies be damned. “It’s this video -”

“It’s actually nothing that doesn’t matter and never will,” Eddie interrupts, which only makes Mike break out one of those bright, friendly grins. It feels deceiving when Eddie knows its at the expense of his sanity. 

“Some guy made a video about Eddie -” Mike begins, and Stan immediately perks up. 

“Wait, seriously? _About_ Eddie?” 

“Yeah, it’s, like, twenty minutes long, and it’s kind of adorable? I don’t know, man, but he hasn’t even watched it yet -”

“Eddie, what are you waiting for?” Stan gets up and marches over to Eddie’s desk, deftly sliding Eddie’s desktop keyboard towards himself to pull up Youtube. “We’re doing a screening of this right now.” 

Eddie slowly smacks his forehead on his desk, hiding his head in his arms. “I hate both of you,” he mumbles, though he isn’t sure if either of them hear him. 

“Dude.” Mike is gently coaxing Eddie up from his desk, so he can face his computer screen. Stan has the page set up and ready to go, though the pair of them seem to be more focused on watching Eddie than they are on the actual video. 

“I promise it’s not weird, like those comments under your videos -” Mike starts to reassure him, and Stan cuts in.

“- or those subreddits about you, or Twitter threads full of screenshots of just your hands -”

“- nothing like any of that,” Mike finishes. “I swear to God, it’s genuinely just someone who thinks you’re cool.”

“You swear?” Eddie repeats. Now he’s thinking about all those subreddits and Twitter threads, and how uncomfortable they all make him whenever he finds one. Those screenshots of his hands may have been mysterious and odd, but were definitely on the tamer end of the internet’s preoccupation with him. 

“I swear.” Mike puts one hand over his heart, and gives Eddie a solemn, formal nod. “If I’m wrong and you get weirded out, I get you coffee until next Thursday.” 

That is tempting - most of the staff have a nearby coffeeshop they frequent, and the prospect of free mochas and americanos for the next week seems like a fair enough consolation prize for his suffering. 

Eddie sighs, long and dramatic, and faces the computer screen. “Well, I’m already in a state of perpetual torment and horror anyway, so fuck it. Might as well.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Mike says, and hits play. 

* * *

  
  


**i would die for eddie kaspbrak from the ba test kitchen**

[Richie Tozier, wearing sweatpants and a tank top under his flowery apron, is standing in the middle of his kitchen. He waves at the camera, grinning; his glasses slip down his nose slightly, and he pushes them back up without even thinking.] 

“So, I would die for Eddie Kaspbrak from the BA test kitchen.” 

[Bev Marsh, dressed up for a meeting, ducks into frame. She has one eyebrow raised at Richie, and she crosses her arms over her chest.] 

“Yeah, we know.” 

“But they don’t! The people need to be informed, Beverly!” 

[Bev rolls her eyes and walks off-camera, though a distant “i’m sure they do” can be heard before a door closes. Richie just looks at the camera, face painted in melodramatic disbelief.]

“Can you believe some people? _Honestly_. Now, back to the matter at hand: Eddie Kaspbrak from the BA test kitchen.”

[Cut to a clip of Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen, who is trying (and failing) to use a Staples-brand can of air to smooth out the tops of his homemade Reese’s cups. He squints into the pan, and his nose crinkles in disgust.]

“Mike, why am I doing this? This is such a bad idea, there’s something coming _out of this_ , what if it’s poisonous - Mike?” 

[Cut back to Richie, who is standing in his kitchen with both hands clutched over his heart.]

“ _That_ is Eddie Kaspbrak from the BA test kitchen. So, while I explain why I would die for him, I’m gonna recreate one of his Gourmet Makes recipes because why wouldn’t I? Based on the poll I put out on Twitter, we’re makin’ Peeps today everybody!” 

[Cut to Richie leaning over a food processor in his kitchen; when he opens the top, a cloud of pink powder puffs directly into his face, sending him into a coughing fit. Cut back to Richie pre-Peep adventure, grinning like he doesn’t know the trials ahead of him.]

“Let’s get started!”

[Cut to Richie standing at an island counter in his kitchen, baking sheets and parchment paper scattered before him. He starts sketching Peep dimensions with a sharpie.]

“So, reason number one that I would die for Eddie Kaspbrak from the BA test kitchen: he’s a genius. He makes snacks the way Einstein made . . .” [Richie trails off, looking off into the distance.] “. . . did Einstein make stuff? Did he ever invent a thing?” 

[Cut to Richie, having abandoned his parchment paper and baking sheets, reading off of his phone.]

“According to interestingengineering.com, Albert Einstein invented the quantum theory of light, the special theory of relativity, avo- avocado- avogadro - no, you know what?” [He looks up at the camera, mouth drawn into a stubborn frown.] “ _Avocado’s_ number, and . . . black holes?” 

[Cut back to Richie, who has returned to his parchment paper.] 

“Eddie Kaspbrak from the BA test kitchen makes snacks the way Einstein made black holes and light, which is super fuckin’ cool. Also these are the Peep dimensions.” [Richie holds up the parchment paper to show the camera, like a small child with a macaroni art project.] “What if we stopped calling it the Fourth Dimension, because that’s boring and dumb, and started calling it the Peep Dimension?” 

[Cut to a clip of Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen drawing his own Peep dimensions on parchment paper, and going, “Dust them with cornstarch so you can disconnect your Peeps.” He pauses, and looks up at the camera. “Sorry, I just started thinking about a Peep sending in a missed connection thing to the, like - wait, f*** does the Village Voice still exist? That’s what that was for, right? Anyway, dust with cornstarch.”] 


	2. maybe he's shy??? (thatmunchlad liked)

Mike is standing in line to buy Eddie coffee, and Eddie is lingering just behind him and reading a book on his phone. He’s told Mike that it’s some smart-person-memoir of some kind, when really he’s skimming through the new EL James novel out of morbid curiosity. So far? Pretty boring, and not nearly as much awkward sex as he was anticipating. Maybe he shouldn’t be so secretive about it. 

Mike is standing in line to buy Eddie coffee on Friday morning, which should be a sign that Eddie has freaked out about the video. And, in some ways, Eddie did freak out. He’d sat perfectly still through the entirety of the video, and then slowly closed the tab. Stan and Mike had watched him as he’d gently laid his head back down on his desk. 

“You okay?” Mike had asked, sounding a tad remorseful. Eddie hadn’t been sure if he wanted him to be or not. 

“‘M fine,” he mumbled. “Just gonna . . . think. Or something. Nap.” And then he had waited for the both of them to return to their respective desks before standing up and moving on with his day like nothing had happened. 

Something had definitely Happened, but Eddie is letting it Happen primarily inside his own head for the time being. He needs to think. 

Mike had volunteered to buy him coffee regardless, because he was the best person in the world. Eddie had followed him two blocks from the office, to keep him company. 

“Medium americano, right?” Mike asks, and Eddie nods, looking up from his phone. 

“Yeah, thanks. You really don’t have to do this,” he adds, because it feels like a necessary thought to tack on. 

“Don’t worry about it, I made you watch the stupid thing,” Mike says with a smile and a shrug. The epitome of cool and collected. Eddie tries often not to envy Mike for that.

When they reach the counter, there’s someone new standing behind it. His nametag reads ‘Ben’ and he gives them a soft enough smile that Eddie can already feel his mistrust of a new barista waning. 

“Where’s Liza? She always works Fridays.” Eddie tries not to sound accusatory, but damn is he failing. 

‘Ben’ blushes and says, “Oh, I think she transferred to another location? So I’m sort of the new guy in town.” He says this like an apology, and Eddie feels a bit bad for asking. 

“Well, new guy in town, we will take one medium americano and one medium cappuccino, please.” Mike has turned on his charming voice, and is smiling the way he does at new interns at BA. Eddie almost finds himself enchanted by him, and he’s been used to Mike’s charming antics for nigh on six years. 

“Comin’ right up,” Ben says with a broader smile, and pulls out two medium cups. “Can I get your names?”

“The americano is for Eddie, the cappuccino is for Mike. I’m Mike,” Mike adds, and does a self-conscious little laugh that Eddie knows he whips out in interviews, that makes him seem more relatable and easy to talk to. He could charm the pants off of any crabby executive in their building, without even realizing he was doing it. 

Eddie just gives Ben a small smile of his own and closes his phone. What he wouldn’t give for Mike’s social skills at times like these. 

They collect their drinks from Tonya, who has been making their coffees for a year now and already knows to leave Eddie room for cream in his americano, and start their walk back to the office. They’re taking their time, and Eddie can sense the conversation coming before Mike even opens his mouth. 

“So, the video completely weirded you out?” 

Eddie sighs, and takes a long drink of his coffee instead of answering immediately. It is, after all, the direct result of Mike’s assumption that he’s uncomfortable. He wants to savour it as long as he can. He also really doesn’t want to answer Mike’s question. 

“The video  _ didn’t  _ completely weird you out?” Mike says, a grin inching its way across his face. 

Eddie just sighs again and quickens his pace. Mike follows suit; he looks so delighted that Eddie can’t help feeling a little annoyed by it. 

“No, okay, maybe it didn’t,” he bites out, taking another long sip of coffee. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to hash out his thoughts about the video - he absolutely does. He thinks maybe if he figures out how to feel about it, maybe he’ll be able to do literally anything without it flitting across his brain, derailing his train of thought. He can hardly take the quiet walk to and from the pantry without thinking about “themunchlad”. 

But he has little interest in hashing those thoughts out within ten feet of Mike’s knowing grin. Like he has any idea of what’s going on in Eddie’s head. He probably does, because he’s Mike, after all, but that doesn’t mean Eddie has to appreciate the pleased look he’s wearing. 

“Look, I’m glad it didn’t freak you out, because that stuff sucks,” Mike says as they step through the front doors of their building. “But I can’t help wondering . . .”

“What?” Eddie asks, wary, as they walk into the elevator. “What are you wondering? I get worried when you start wondering, Hanlon.” 

Mike rolls his eyes, still smiling. “Relax, just wondering if you think it’s kind of . . . I don’t know, sweet?” 

“Sweet?” Eddie repeats. He’s glad they’re alone in the elevator for this conversation, because the idea of anyone from the Vogue or GQ floors catching sight of his fierce blush is one that will haunt his daydreams for weeks. 

“Yeah. Like, I don’t know, it’s kind of adorable how moony-eyed he is over you, I guess.” Mike shrugs as they get off on the Bon Appetit floor. 

“Moony-eyed? How old are you again?” 

“You’re hilarious, Eddie,” Mike says flatly, swiping his employee card to enter the hall that leads to the test kitchen. “I just think it’s kinda cute. Like a little kid with a crush on Orlando Bloom or something.”

Eddie eyes Mike as he takes a seat at his desk, depositing his coffee in exchange for opening up his email inbox, getting right to work. That, Eddie theorizes, is how Mike maintains his professional image: he constantly checks his email, even during work conversations. It makes him seem very busy and on top of his work. Unfortunately for Mike, it’s a trick that can’t fool Eddie or Stan, who know for a fact how much of his inbox is comprised of alerts from Bath & Body Works and the Coney Island Petting Zoo, to which Mike has an annual pass. (It’s roughly 56%, according to Stan’s calculations.) 

So when Mike does this, Eddie knows it’s to seem as though he’s moving from their conversation and back to work. But Eddie isn’t going to let him go that easily. 

“Orlando Bloom, huh? Pirates era, Will Turner Orlando Bloom?” Eddie smiles, light and cloyingly sweet and very teasing. “You have a thing for curly-haired, rule-following guys, Mike?” 

Mike doesn’t look up from his email, but Eddie sees his neck darken with a self conscious flush. “I don’t remember saying that.” 

“Because you didn’t have to,” Eddie says, turning to unpack his things. He isn’t going to check his inbox for a minute, the same way he hasn’t really checked Twitter or Instagram since he saw the video: too many people were asking him about it for his comfort. 

Mike says nothing else about the video that day, and stumbles over a joke when he catches Eddie watching him and Stan talking in the lunchroom. Eddie is delighted. 

* * *

  
  


**@kaspbrakkie:** @eddiek have you seen @trashbandicoot’s video about u?? bc Wow 

**@sweddie:** @trashbandicoot dude you really nailed everything we love about eddie, and like i can’t believe you’re the first person to really Talk About Him??? also your peeps were so cute i love them

**@sweetsboyeddie:** @eddiek @trashbandicoot would highkey be the cooktube crossover of the year 

**@bonappletea reply to @sweetsboyeddie:** omg they’d be so chaotic pls pls pls !!! 

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @bonappletea:** hey @bonappetit @trashbandicoot this would be sick please and thanks 

  
  


* * *

Richie Tozier is a semi-professional cook who makes recipes for a literal living. He also primarily consists off of microwave mac-and-cheese and dino veggie nuggets. 

“They’re veggie, not chicken,” he says, holding up the box to show Bev as she walks into their kitchen. “Therefore: healthy.”

“That’s not true at all,” she replies as she starts preheating the oven. “But I want the triceratops.” 

“Fine! But the T-Rex is mine!” Richie tosses her the box; she catches it deftly. Despite their lack of steady routine, they are a well-oiled machine of chaos. Bev almost knows Richie’s next bit of nonsense before he even begins it. 

But she doesn’t predict the next thing to come out of his mouth. “Bon Appetit emailed me today.” 

“Hmm?” Bev looks over at him from where she has gone ram-rod straight, still leaning against the counter. She looks like she’s impersonating the world’s least chill adult at a freshman college party. “What did they want?”

“Nothing terrible,” Richie says, mostly to try and calm her down a bit. Bev doesn’t trust big corporations or companies very much, particularly after the harassment some of them have put Richie through for the sake of copyright infringement. “They just want royalties because I used so many clips of their show in my video. They were weirdly cool about it honestly.” Richie plays this off as casually as he can, though he had panicked when he spotted the email in his inbox that morning. 

“Good.” Bev says this as though she would have to go and pick a personal fight with the CEO of Bon Appetit if they hadn’t been cool about it, and the mental image of Bev marching into an executive’s office with murder in her eyes makes Richie crack a fond smile. 

“Has Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen said anything about it yet?” Bev asks as she slides their pan of dino nuggets into the oven. She swings herself up onto the counter, legs dangling over the side of it. 

Richie shrugs, feeling a twinge of uncertainty in his chest that is growing familiar in the aftermath of posting the video. It’s been almost a week since it went up, and there hasn’t been one word from Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen about it. Richie is starting to worry that he’s creeped him out, and that he’s trying to avoid interacting with him. 

But what Richie says aloud is, “Not a peep.”

Bev rolls her eyes. “Ugh, beep beep, asshole,” she snarks, though Richie can see the twitch of her mouth as she fights off a reluctant smile. “Pun not fucking pardoned!”

“Rude, Bevampira!” 

Bev crinkles her nose in distaste. “Not your best work.”

“No?” Richie frowns as he pulls out his phone, opening up a new notes page. “What about . . . Bev the Barbarian?”

Bev makes a show of considering it, tapping the electric blue nail of her index finger on her chin. “No, I don’t think so. I miss Bevoluminous.” 

“But I’ve already used that one!” Richie protests.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t waste them, if they’re such a finite resource!” Bev shoots back, laughing. “And, holy shit, you don’t have a fucking  _ list  _ of bad nicknames for me, do you?” 

“You wish,” Richie says, head now buried in their fridge. “Planning a new video. What d’you think about the food in  _ Lord of the Rings _ ?” 

“I think that it’s a good excuse for me to put elf ears on you again,” Bev says with a snort. “And that you need to just invent whatever the hell ‘second breakfast’ is supposed to be.” 

“Yes!” Richie pumps one hand in the air, still rooting around in the fridge. “Second Breakfast coming right up!” 

* * *

  
  


**themunchlad** i hope everyone likes the video!! what’re your favourite eddie kaspbrak from the ba test kitchen moments/recipes?? mine is probably the first time he ever ate a taki bc wtf dude 

634 likes

**tay hill** omg bon appetit needs to invite you over!!! seriously, you and eddie would be so fun to watch, pls make it happen

203 likes

**angie** my fave eddie moment was the entirety of the reese’s episode, because he really doesn’t want to temper that fucking chocolate and i (pastry chef in training) relate 

130 likes, thatmunchlad liked

**thatmunchlad** ugh yeah that’s why i try and avoid stuff that needs it, but also the 

shitty stuff can be funny too lmao

**ayyyycocoa** i miss the twinkie episode bc wow that’s true Growth, also you guys would have great chemistry i’d love to see you do a video together

402 likes

**mary mcdonald** ugh i wish, but eddie’s being kind of rude about it??? like he hasn’t 

said anything about the vid, and he’s been ghosting his sm since it came out

**reilly rowland** maybe he’s shy?? (maybe he thinks richie’s cute lmao)

126 likes, thatmunchlad liked

**reilly rowland** fUCK RICHIE LIKED !!!?????

* * *

Eddie is in the bathroom, an hour before he heads home for the day, when he gets the notification. His phone buzzes, as though aware of the importance of this update, and when he checks the screen he nearly drops it on the bathroom floor. 

He hadn’t felt the need to switch off his notifications, despite the flood of messages directed towards him about themunchlad’s video, because his notifications beforehand had already been filtered to just his mutuals. So he could keep up with Mike’s goat video of the day, or the dumb inspirational quotes Jon their editor posted. 

He hadn’t expected the notifications to alert him of Stan’s utter betrayal. 

Eddie marches right over to Stan’s desk the moment after he reads the tweet. Well, maybe a few moments after; he needs some time to compose himself, after all. That composition drops the moment he’s standing next to Stan Uris, who looks up at him with neither pity nor remorse in his eyes. “Yes?”

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Eddie says, voice curt and as loud as he can make it without yelling. “I cannot believe you would fucking - you know how - God, Stan, what the hell?!” 

Stan raises a single eyebrow, impassive to his plight. “You weren’t going to do it.”

“I didn’t think it fucking  _ needed to be done _ !” Eddie is scowling, hard enough to pinch his face, but he continues as he stares down at Stan. “This would’ve just  _ blown over _ -”

“Eddie,” Stan says, weariness creeping into his voice. “You work for a magazine. You have a Youtube series. You know that this wouldn’t have just ‘blown over’. You know exactly how hard the internet would cling to it.” He turns back to his computer, where he’s going through a new recipe. It’s for a butternut squash tarte tatin. Eddie distantly thinks it sounds absolutely delicious, and then reminds himself to be mad at Stan and not hungry. 

“Maybe you’re right!” Eddie scowls even harder at this admission, and the slight nod it gets from Stan. “But you still didn’t have to - I could’ve handled it!”

“Eddie, you’ve been avoiding it for almost a week,” Stan says. He isn’t looking up from his recipe now, although Eddie can see a slight downward curve to his mouth, the barest hints of apology rising to the surface. He can sense an apologetic Stan, after years of mutual nonsense and squabbles over waffles and superhero movies and Eddie’s various disastrous Thursdays, and is at least satisfied about the impending apology he’ll receive by the next day. But he is still standing in the aftermath of Stan’s fucking tweet. 

“I know.” Eddie bites down a sigh. “I know. I was.” 

“Are you going to -?”

“Yes, okay, I’ll say something,  _ God _ , don’t fuckin’ push it, Stanley.” Eddie strides over to his own desk and plops down in his chair.

Stan and Mike come to hover over his shoulders within minutes. He seethes a little bit, the lack of space itching under his skin, even if they are his best friends. “I didn’t realize this was a group effort.” 

“Just to be safe,” Mike quips from on his left. Eddie can hear his smile. “In case you try and say something awful.”

“I just have to say thanks for the shoutout, how can I fuck that up?” he demands, whirling on them. Stan and Mike both back up, even though they know how little bite there is to much of Eddie’s bark. 

“You have to - well, shit, Eddie, you should interact a bit, you know?” Mike looks like he’s trying very hard not to say something that will upset Eddie, which of course kind of upsets Eddie. “Just - don’t bite his head off. Say something nice. Acknowledge him nicely, start a dialogue.” 

“Why do I need a fucking  _ dialogue _ ?” Eddie turns back around, facing the Twitter tab he has pulled up on his laptop. 

“Because otherwise you’re a jackass,” Stan says; he clearly isn’t here to mince words. 

“I’m not a jackass,” Eddie bites out, eyes narrowed as he focuses on the empty tweet he’s trying to write. Since when did Twitter have this much thought put behind it? 

“You kind of sometimes are, maybe a tiny bit,” Mike says, and shrugs when Eddie glares at him. “Only sometimes! And you never mean to. You just . . .”

“You know what, I’m doing this later. I’m doing this later, and you two can fuck right off.” Eddie closes the tab with a decisive click, and shoos Stan and Mike away from his desk. “I’m at work, and I’m getting work done!”

The moment they vanish off to their own duties in the test kitchen, however, Eddie pulls out his phone. He opens Twitter. He opens a new tweet, and he types, and he hits post before he can overthink any of it, before he can even really reread it once. He closes his phone and puts it in his desk drawer and tries not to think about any of it. 

Of course, he goes home on the ferry that night thinking about it. 

* * *

**@thestanuris:** That video about Eddie is spreading through the test kitchen like wildfire, please stop sending it to me, I’ve already seen it I promise. 

**@thestanuris:** I can confirm that Eddie has seen @trashbandicoot’s video. Please stop sending it to him, thank you. 

**@bonappletea reply to @thestanuris:** OH SHIT !!!!!!!

**@amunchylad reply to @thestanuris:** !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god !!!!!!!!!!!

**@sweddie reply to @thestanuris:** why hasn’t eddie said anything???? is he okay????

* * *

  
  


Richie and Bev look down at their tray of dino nuggets, and let out identical sighs of disappointment. 

“We’re always so optimistic,” Bev says, picking up a nugget between her fingertips and frowning at it. 

Richie scoots a handful of them onto his plate, and some onto Bev’s. “May as well eat whichever. Because absolutely none of them ever look like dinosaurs!” 

Bev takes her plate and starts drifting into the living room, probably to flip on tv for them to eat dinner to. Richie follows, digging his phone out of his sweatpants pocket. He snaps a quick photo of his plate of nuggets, all amalgamous blobs, not a dinosaur in sight. He opens Twitter to share his sadness with the world, and nearly drops his plate when he takes a peek at his notifications. 

His many, many notifications. 

“Richie?” Bev asks this from the couch, mouth full of veggie nugget. She’s watching him in concern, oblivious to the SVU cast putting a man on trial behind her. “Everything okay? Did they send another email?”

Richie shakes his head, slowly making his way over to the couch to take a seat next to her, holding out his phone like a holy text. Bev reads quickly, scrolls a bit, reads even faster, and holds a hand to her mouth. Her green eyes dart from phone to Richie to phone to Richie. 

“You okay?” she asks again. 

“I -” Richie stops, breathes, eats a nugget. They’re pretty good, though he still thinks the flavour is diminished by their lack of T-Rex resemblance. But still, pretty damn good. “I think I’m all good.” 

* * *

  
  


**@eddiek reply to @thestanuris:** stan’s right, pls stop sending it to me, it’s all good

**@eddiek:** @trashbandicoot (seriously??) i don’t know what about my peeps breakdown you found so endearing - @thestanuris threatened to throw me and the peeps out the kitchen window. twice. 

**@eddiek reply to @sweetsboyeddie:** anything’s possible 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody!! this will definitely be a Slow Burn, so i'm sorry if this chapter doesn't really move mountains in terms of plot progression lmao - i just like writing in this au, it's so cute and fun and sweet lmao  
> also that tarte tatin is a real bon appetit recipe, that is listed as a recipe for eddie's zodiac - the stars made him think it's delicious (although i firmly believe eddie thinks zodiacs are dumb, but secretly has a co-star app lmao)   
> ben and bill will arrive shortly, i promise  
> also i've figured out the other relationships in the fic, but i'll only start tagging them when i start including them properly (am i hinting at stanlon?? yes)   
> and tysm to everyone who's sent some love to this fic, you guys are v sweet and lovely <3 <3 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you'd like <3 <3


	3. #thankseds

“Another video? He must really like you.”

“It’s almost like the title of the first one was him declaring his willingness to die for Eddie,” Stan says with a snort as he passes by Eddie and Mike. 

“Would you both shut up?” Eddie mutters; his shoulders are bunching up around his ears as he shrinks into himself, and he can already feel the burn of his blush creeping up his neck. And he’s on camera, which is great. “You’re so unprofessional.”

“Awww, does Eddie  _ like  _ munchboy?” Mike teases, and laughs when Eddie shoves his shoulder. “Relax, it’s cute that you have a fan. Right, Jonathan?” Mike looks to the camera operator, who laughs, too. 

“ANYWAY,” Eddie starts over, swatting Mike out of frame despite the tray of sugar cookies he’s carrying, “We’re making gourmet twizzlers today, because we can, and we’re gonna do it as far away from them as possible.” He looks to Jonathan and then their director, Brad, pleadingly. “We can cut some of that out, right?” 

Brad nods, straight-faced as ever, though Eddie doesn’t think he trusts the gleam in Jonathan’s eye. Whatever. He has twizzlers to make, and not disastrous internet cooking shows to think about. 

Though he has been thinking about themunchlad a lot.

Richie Tozier, as his bio names him, is a twenty-five year old from New Jersey, who is self-taught in the culinary arts, and recreates movie and videogame dishes for his youtube channel. Eddie had binged several of these videos the night he sent The Tweet, and had tried not to pay too close attention to Richie’s hands, which are long-fingered and expressive. He had failed pretty spectacularly. 

The consequences - and yes, Mike, that was the right word - of The Tweet had been intense, to say the least. Eddie is still receiving replies that are just strings of exclamation marks, and it’s been six days. He’s barely touched twitter since, just a handful of retweets and one dig at the New York public transit system (the same that he made on such a regular basis that his followers could practically predict the next one.) 

Then, Richie Tozier - who frequently wears the Olive Garden line cook uniform he stole from his four month stint as one - released another video in which he recreated one of Eddie’s recipes: Reese’s cups. (Richie had suggested throughout the video that he was going to try the ones made with the compressed air Eddie had foolishly tried, chemicals or no. Eddie had chewed through a hangnail the entire time, hoping he wasn’t actually stupid enough to go through with it.) 

This second video had put the pair of them on the twitter trending page for a whole morning. #thankseds had been the first thing Eddie had seen on twitter that morning, and he hadn’t exactly been thrilled at the nickname. 

Mike and Stan had called him ‘Eds’ until he threatened Stan with a frying pan around five pm. 

So, yeah. Eddie is pretty thoroughly involved with themunchlad now, their “culinary fates intertwining in the cosmos” as Richie had put it. He always seems to speak like that, in dramatic monologues or bad jokes. Eddie doesn’t know how people can enjoy his content unironically like that, but he supposes some people will watch anything (see: half the Youtube trending page). 

Eddie makes his way through Day One of twizzlers with nothing but strawberry reduction and Richie Tozier on his mind, which is frustrating and odd and he doesn’t like it one bit. He thinks it’s probably Mike and Stan’s fault, talking about the guy all the time. Eddie can’t seem to go ten minutes without a joke about Eddie’s “superfan.” 

“I’m headed home now, so that none of you can enjoy my misery anymore today,” Eddie declares to the test kitchen, which is populated by just Stan, Mike, and two other pastry chefs trying to make a pie-cake hybrid in the corner. 

“We can do that without you in sight,” Stan says without looking up from his bowl of peach compote. “I know you’ll be miserable at home, too, so I can enjoy it remotely. Don’t worry about us, Eds.”

“You start that again and you’ll be the one worrying,” Eddie hisses, slinging on his backpack. Stan just rolls his eyes, because he’s the worst. 

The trip home is spent ruminating even further on Richie Tozier, who is such a bizarrely chaotic figure online that Eddie is having a hard time thinking about his own joking hint at a possible collab.  _ Stupid, Kaspbrak _ . The idea of getting into a kitchen, full of hot and sharp objects, is becoming less and less appealing the more of Richie’s videos Eddie watches. He isn’t sure if he’d survive the experience. 

As Eddie finally collapses against the closed door of his apartment, exhausted from a day spent slaving over gourmet twizzlers and stressing about someone whose actual twitter username is trashbandicoot (because oh my  _ God _ , Eddie still hasn’t let that go), he decides that the frozen butter chicken in his freezer and the rosé in his tiny pantry sound like an excellent Friday night dinner. 

Eddie, ever a believer in true self care, takes a stupidly long shower and uses too much body lotion when he steps out, pink and clean and ready to spend the night on his couch. He sips a glass of rosé as he waits for his microwave meal to finish heating up. He smells of vanilla and feels fucking content, though the ever-present curiosity and worry surrounding themunchlad lingers in the back of his mind. But for just this moment, everything is nice and good and Eddie doesn’t need to stress. He can be chill. He can have a self care night on a Friday and not think about internet personalities who would “die” for him. He is all good, a-okay. 

He turns on one of Richie’s videos on his phone. 

It’s a video of Richie trying different old, nostalgic snacks from his childhood, and his friend and roommate, Bev, is there. She’s fiery and beautiful and has a wit sharper than Richie’s, though he never seems distressed by her comebacks or quips. They seem too familiar with each other, as though every comment Bev makes that could be considered rude or mean-spirited is actually part of some elaborate inside-joke. Eddie thinks he likes her; at the very least, he thinks she brings a degree of common sense to Richie. 

Not wanting to stare at Richie’s charmingly crooked grin any longer, Eddie swipes away to check his email, leaning up against his counter. He deletes some spam mail, opens a message from Mike with a link to a fantastic eight-second video of a frog and a snail cuddling, and finally lands on an email from an unfamiliar address:  [ admin.teenvogueweb@teenvogue.com ](mailto:admin.teenvogueweb@teenvogue.com) . 

Eddie frowns. Has he done something to warrant a scolding from Teen Vogue? Their offices aren’t in the Bon Appetit building, as far as he knows, so he can’t have even spoken to one of their employees rudely or anything like that. Besides, “admin”? Not human resources? What is happening? 

He opens the email, and reads through it three times, just to make sure he isn’t imagining or misinterpreting anything. When he’s sure he knows what it says, Eddie slides down to sit on the (immaculately clean) floor of his kitchen. 

  
  


**To:** Edward Kaspbrak,  _ Bon Appetit Magazine  _

**From:** Teen Vogue Web, Administration and Creative Planning Department

**Subject:** Scheduling/First Meeting

Edward Kaspbrak,

I am writing to you as a representative of the Creative Planning department of Teen Vogue, in regards to the third issue of Teen Vogue Web, an online-exclusive edition of our magazine, released monthly. We are hoping to gather the featured creators and figures of this third issue, which will be released for August 2019, and you are a creator we hope to feature. Please reply to this email if you are interested in participating, and we will be in contact with you regarding the details of the interview/shoot/etc. 

Have a lovely day,

Audra Phillips, Creative Planner and Administrator 

  
  
“Holy shit.” Eddie breathes, staring at his phone in astonishment. A “featured creator”? Him? What the fuck? 

He does the only sensible thing: he calls Mike. 

* * *

  
  


**Reese Cups From The Recipe Of An Angel**

[Richie Tozier sock-slides into frame, and he’s wearing an apron with the body of Captain American printed onto it. He’s grinning, and he shoots the camera finger guns. This, presumably, means he’s delighted.]

“What’s up, my good dudes! Munch Lad here, with another recipe straight from the brilliant mind and hands of the BA test kitchen’s best pastry chef, Eddie Kaspbrak! Today, we’re gonna be recreating Eddie’s Reese Cup recipe, because I love peanut butter and ALSO because I want to thank Eddie Spaghetti himself for shouting me out on twitter the other day! That was . . .”

[Richie trails off, and his smile shifts into a smaller, softer one.] 

“That was fuckin’ rad of him.”

[Cut to Richie standing at his counter, gesturing at the spread of ingredients before him.]

“So, we’re gonna need peanuts, vanilla, salt - just a pinch! - water, sugar -”

[A pale hand, nails painted bubblegum pink and fingers decorated in glimmering rings, darts into frame and snatches a chunk of milk chocolate from its bowl on the counter. Richie’s hand swats it away, but he’s too late: the crime has been committed, and the chocolate stolen.]

“Bev, what the fuck!”

“I’ve been craving chocolate!” 

* * *

  
  


The trial-and-error process of some of Richie’s videos results in a lot of things in Casa Bitchie: frustrated anger-eating oreos, a severe lack of counter space, flour and/or soy sauce deficits. But right now, Richie and Bev are enjoying one of the unexpectedly pleasant side-effects: an excess of bread. 

“God, elven bread is so fucking  _ hard _ ,” Richie groans through a mouthful of non-elven bread. Or, at least, non-elven bread according to their taste test. Bev and Richie have a very specific, though seemingly-undefinable vision for what elven bread would truly be, and so far have both rejected every iteration of it that he’s baked. All eight of them. 

“Yeah, but at least this one is fucking  _ good _ ,” Bev says; Richie watches her dramatically pull apart a bun, taking a strong sniff of its center and letting out a satisfied sigh. “The raisins were a nice touch.”

“Thank you,” Richie says, ripping off a chunk of his own bun. It’s a kind of brioche/french bread hybrid, and tastes so good that Richie is thinking about giving it its own video. “I think the cardamom really makes that one, though.”

“Mmm, you’re right,” Bev agrees, biting into it. She rolls her eyes, moaning through her mouthful of bread, and Richie swats at her with a laugh. “Any old schmuck can use cinnamon. It takes a true stroke of genius to think of cardamom.” 

“Shut up,” Richie says, giving her thigh a shove with his foot. Bev scoots away with a small cry of indignance. “At least the last video went over well, numbers-wise, so that I can take my time with this one.”

Bev snorts, eyebrows raised. “My dude, you know that any video where you mention Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen is gonna be a hit, right? People are eating that shit up.”

“It’s not shit! I do like his videos!” Richie protests. He won’t hear a word against his tributes to Eddie’s series, and Bev should definitely know better. 

“Well, yeah, but regardless - those videos are popping off. People love them, and you and Eddie interacting. Which is why it’s so incredibly fun that I have a secret that you don’t know!” Bev sing-songs this, like a child. Richie responds like a grown adult: by chucking a bun at her head. It bounces off her temple, but she catches it just before it hits the floor, grinning triumphantly. 

“Just fuckin’ tell me! Don’t leave me in suspense!” Richie whines. 

Bev just shrugs, plucking a piece out of the bun Richie has thrown at her. “I don’t know . . . do you think I should tell you? Do you really think you deserve this knowledge?” 

“I do!” 

“Do you know the magic words?” Bev asks, smiling sweetly. 

“I hate you,” Richie says, glaring at her. 

“Close, but no dice,” Bev says, her smile broadening at his frustration. He’s best friends with the devil, he knows it. “Come on, you know them.”

“C’mon! You can’t just leave me in suspense like this! What happened to best friends tell each other everything?” 

Bev snorts, and Richie tries to glare even harder. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure watching me suffer is  _ very  _ funny, Beverly.” 

“It is,” Bev agrees, but ducks away from his second weaponized bun with a laugh. “Okay, okay, you wanna know?”

“Yes!”

“Okay . . . guess who’s gonna be featured in the August issue of Teen Vogue Online, styled and  _ personally emailed  _ by yours truly?” 

There is a long pause; the turning gears in Richie’s brain are practically audible. When he lands on the answer, he yells loud enough that no amount of millionaire’s shortbread is going to fix it. 

“NO FUCKING WAY!” 

* * *

  
  


**@trashbandicoot:** don’t u just love it when ppl u trust run off to live ur dreams !!!! 

**@trashbandicoot:** anyway @missmartian have fun, i love/hate u !!!!!

**@amunchylad reply to @trashbandicoot:** wait wtf what did bev do

**@bonappletea reply to @trashbandicoot:** are you guys okay??? did bev do something???? is bev Cancelled ???? 

**@marymac reply to @trashbandicoot:** lmao ppl freaking out when you and bev have an unbreakable bond - did she get tickets to toy story 4 before you?? 

**@sweddie reply to @trashbandicoot:** am i insane for thinking this has something to do with eddie?? or am i just like totally biased lol 

* * *

“Hey - did you wanna give us another chance to make fun of you?” Mike answers the phone on the sixth ring, which means Eddie’s patience is wearing thin when he starts his teasing. 

Eddie scowls. “Ugh, shut up, no! I need . . . I don’t fucking know, advice, or perspective, or some shit. You and Stan are my only option right now.” 

“Good to know I’m your  _ only  _ option, and not your  _ first  _ option,” Mike says dryly. “Hold on, I’ll put you on speakerphone.” 

“Only if it’s just you two,” Eddie says quickly. 

“Yeah, just us,” Mike assures him, and Eddie can now hear Stan’s hum of agreement and the sound of chopping. “We’re staying late to finish some recipes. What’s up?”

“I - I, well, I got this email -” Eddie stumbles, uncertain of how to phrase his predicament without sounding ridiculous. Was he asking for permission to say yes? Was saying no even an option? 

“You good?” Mike asks. The warm concern in his voice eases the tension in Eddie’s chest just a bit, and he takes a deep breath, remembering the exercises from therapy: in on six, out on eight. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says finally, voice steady, determined. “Teen Vogue wants to feature me?” 

“Hmm?” Stan’s voice cuts into the call. “What?” 

“Teen - Teen Vogue wants to feature me.” Eddie tries to sound more definitive when he repeats this. Teen Vogue wants to feature him. Teen Vogue wants to feature him. “Teen Vogue wants to feature me.” 

“Yeah, no, we got it the second time,” Stan says, and Eddie can hear his surprised smirk. “Congratulations?” 

“Was that a question?” Eddie shoots back, his own smirk playing around his mouth. 

“Yes, it was,” Stan retorts. “The question being: why did you call us?” There is a tone to the way he says “us” that Eddie wants to decipher, something soft and protective, but he’ll have to wait until later to tease Stan about it. Right now, he has an email to respond to. 

“I was going to ask if you guys think I should say yes, but I think I know what I’m gonna do now,” Eddie explains. His head tilts to the side, thinking through his future response to Audra Phillips, Creative Planner. “So thanks, actually, I guess.”

“Alright!” Mike exclaims, loud enough to startle Eddie. The small squeak he lets out in response makes Mike laugh; it’s a long, rich laugh, and Eddie almost understands how Stan feels about Mike all the time through the way Eddie feels about Mike when he’s laughing. “Eddie Kaspbrak, celebrity chef and Vogue coverstar!” 

“I’m not - it’s not - shut up!” Eddie snaps, flushing. 

“Just remember us when you’re famous,” Stan says, laughter ringing in his voice, too. 

“You literally have a twitter account dedicated to you and your fucking taste-testing expressions,” Eddie replies flatly. 

He can hear Mike and Stan laughing when he hangs up, and can picture the two of them, all alone, baking together in the test kitchen, the lights of a NYC night spread outside the window before them. He absolutely  _ knows  _ he wants to tease Stan about that tomorrow. 

* * *

**To:** Edward Kaspbrak,  _ Bon Appetit Magazine _

**From:** Teen Vogue Web, Creative Planning Department

**Subject:** Styling/Photoshoot

Eddie Kaspbrak,

I’m happy to introduce myself (digitally) as your stylist for your TVW feature for the August 2019 issue. I will be styling both you and the shoot itself, and so will accept any ideas or feedback you have up until June 28th, which is the deadline for shoot detail submissions and finalizations. I would like to meet at least once in person, given that we are both stationed in New York City, before that date, in order to discuss the details of the shoot and your feature as a whole. Would you be available any day between June 14th - June 19th? 

Thank you so much for your time,

Beverly Marsh, Creative Planning 

  
  


Eddie reads the email the following morning at his desk, a small smile inching across his face.  _ Beverly Marsh _ . The stylist sounds professional, but somehow wildly intimidating and cool, though he can’t for the life of him figure out why. Either way he responds, asking about her availability on June 16th. 

By five pm, Eddie has a meeting scheduled with Beverly Marsh, of Teen Vogue’s Creative Planning Department, and is embarrassed about how excited he is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhh shit !!!! the impending eddie & bev friendship fun is gonna be so much fun to write holy shit (and no eddie doesn't know that beverly marsh is bev from themunchlad lmao)
> 
> also tysm to everyone for reading this fic, and especially for commenting!! you're all so so kind and lovely, and make my day every time i see a new comment <3 <3 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you ever wanna chat/yell at me to update or anything lmao <3


	4. bevie is a cute super platonic friendship !!

June 16th rolls around sooner than Eddie had ever thought possible. It’s the day after the deadline day for the July issue of the print magazine, which means Eddie is tired and a bit on edge as he goes about his morning routine. Waiting for the selected articles and recipes is never a fun time, and he wonders why he thought June 16th would be such a great time to meet his stylist for the Teen Vogue feature. 

He putters about making coffee and choosing an outfit. He wants to seem stylish, yet casual. He doesn’t really know exactly how to create that effect, however, and settles on a nice t shirt and soft dark jeans. The heat is beginning to descend upon New York as they all plunge into summer, and Eddie dresses for the humidity he constantly gripes about. 

When he reaches the Teen Vogue offices, it’s strange to veer in a different direction when his normal workplace is so close. He can see Fran’s bright red sign from the entrance to their offices. But Eddie has booked the morning off specifically for this, and so takes a walk through the doors and into their elevator. 

Beverly Marsh had emailed him the floor number, and told him to let the receptionist know who he is here to see. He does so, stumbling slightly in the process, but earning a bright smile from the girl behind the desk, who gets up and leads him further into Teen Vogue headquarters, and into a conference room. 

“Beverly will be here in a minute,” she says before slipping back out of the room. 

Eddie tries to settle himself into a chair comfortably, which is proving to be more difficult than he thinks is normal, and admiring the view through the window. New York: a city of windows looking out into other windows. He is watching a man type furiously on a computer in the window opposite his when he hears the door of the conference room open and shut again.

He turns around, and standing there, fiery red hair and infamous half-grin and all, is Bev from themunchlad’s videos. Richie Tozier’s best friend and roommate. Who is Bev, which is short for Beverly, which is followed by the last name Marsh, who is @missmartian on twitter, and who called Eddie “pert” in Richie’s reese’s cup video. The pieces of this puzzle are clicking together in Eddie’s head, and as the connections dawn on him he resists the urge to groan. 

“Eddie Kaspbrak?” Beverly says as she extends her hand, like she doesn’t know perfectly well who he is. “I’m Beverly Marsh, the stylist for your feature.” 

God, she’s miraculously professional. And somehow prettier in real life, as cliche as it is. Eddie can’t stop staring at her, comparing the way her face moves on camera versus in person, and now he’s been staring for far too long. He takes and shakes her hand, and drops it just as quickly. “Hi.” 

Beverly raises an eyebrow, but still takes a seat across from him at the table. She spreads a collection of folders in front of her, and looks back up at him. There’s a glint in her eye that is now familiar to Eddie, though it’s far more charming in person. Most things seem to be. 

(Maybe the same can be said for Richie, Eddie wonders, before he shuts that entire train of thought down.) 

“Let’s go over some of the ideas our small team has brainstormed, yeah?” 

* * *

  
  


**Reese Cups From The Recipe Of An Angel**

“He’s very . . .  _ pert _ , isn’t he?” 

[Richie turns to stare at Bev in shock, mouth hanging open. His hands are deep in a bowl of peanut butter mixture, and he looks ready to toss some at her. Maybe that is why Bev scoots a few inches away, though her shit-eating grin doesn’t look like she’s very apologetic.]

“ _ Pert _ ? That’s what you think Eddie Kaspbrak is? Pert?!” 

[Bev shrugs, though she’s still eyeing the peanut butter quite carefully. She’s ready to make a break for it, if need be.]

“He’s just so . . . I think it’s the shirt. The one with the flamingo on the pocket.” 

“The flamingo shirt?!”

“Or it could be the incredible resemblance to an elf on a shelf - you know, ready to cause mischief at any moment?” 

“Oh, fuck you! He might see this!” 

* * *

  
  


Richie lays sprawled across his living room couch, laptop balanced on his knees as he types away at a sponsorship email. He could get into cirque du soleil with twisted positions like this one. 

Bev had to go into the office today, because of her Very Important Meeting with Eddie Kaspbrak. And Richie isn’t moping or even remotely jealous, no way. Bev can go style whoever she wants. It doesn’t bother him in the least that she didn’t even ask him if he wanted her to pass on any messages, or say hi on his behalf -

Okay, so maybe Richie is moping. Just a little bit. 

But he feels he has a pretty good reason to. His best friend - potentially ex-best friend, as he told her over coffee this morning - is off fraternizing with someone Richie has admired for the past four months. And now that they have been brought together by the cosmos, Bev refuses to complete their destined connection because she wants to “keep things professional”. The nerve of her! 

He sends his email, which he’s proofread three times; he’s had too many miscommunications for work emails to even think about sending things unedited. Finished, Richie stretches his way to his feet, and pulls out his phone to open up twitter. There’s a flood of excellent WeRateDogs posts for him to peruse, and he does so while making his way around the kitchen, lining up ingredients for the elven bread that he is determined to perfect. Ninth time’s the charm, after all. 

Richie, entirely unaware of the mild shitstorm he’s about to be tagged in, sets down his phone after switching on spotify (the Lord of the Rings soundtrack, of course, for ambiance reasons). He goes about baking his elven bread, not a care in the world. 

* * *

  
  


The meeting goes well, despite the elf on the shelf remark. Eddie brings it up at one point, just to be petty. Bev actually flushes for a second - something Eddie didn’t think was possible - before giving him a brief nod and non-apology. 

(“I didn’t mean to be rude, but I also can’t find it in me to take it back without finding a better comparison.” “Fair enough.” “Yeah?” “Yeah - I don’t see how much it matters, now that Stan and Mike have picked it up, too.”) 

Bev outlines the thematic intentions behind the shoot - “We’re going for something really sort of fresh, brightly-coloured, summery - like the visual equivalent of a berry tart” “You don’t have to explain things in cooking metaphors, it’s okay” - and spreads sheets of potential wardrobe and makeup in front of Eddie. 

“It’s not too elaborate - you’re not the cover or anything. So it’s pretty toned down, but still - well, still pretty, you know? We were thinking something very light and breathable, and you would definitely look good in sort of soft yellow now that I’m looking at you in person - maybe magenta, or violet . . .” 

Bev takes notes, and also takes some of Eddie’s measurements, which tickles and makes Eddie squirm. He feels like a troublesome elf on the shelf in that moment, and Bev snorts when he mentions that. 

“I told you.” 

Then Bev asks him something unexpected: “Did you wanna go to Fran’s?” 

Eddie never passes up on Fran’s because he isn’t a monster, so he agrees. On their way downstairs, a bag full of paperwork and notebooks slung over Bev’s shoulder, Eddie asks her just how professional it is to grab coffee with your styling client. 

Bev just snorts again; it sounds the exact same in person. “You’re not paying me or anything. Feels perfectly ethical. Besides, I haven’t had coffee yet today, and I know you like Fran’s.”

“You do?” Eddie asks, confused. 

“Dude, I follow you on instagram,” Bev says as she opens the door to Fran’s for him. Eddie ducks inside, and Bev follows, instantly claiming a round table in the corner. “Besides, you work at Bon Appetit. Everyone who works around here likes Fran’s.” 

“I don’t suppose you know my order, too?” Eddie asks, just to be snarky. 

“I do not,” Bev shoots back, her smile knowing. It’s the same kind of smile she wears in Richie’s videos, like she’s in on the joke the two of you are painting. “But I can guess?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Eddie says quickly, striding up to the counter. Bill waves at him, and he waves back. 

Bev pouts a bit behind him, though it looks very put on. “Aww, I love that game.”

“And I love not owing you for my coffee,” Eddie says, then turns to Bill. “One medium cappuccino, please. And -” he turns to Bev, raises his eyebrows in question. “Yours is . . .?”

“A large dark roast, two creams two sugars,” Bev answers, and smiles at Bill over Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey, Bill.”

“Hey, long time no see,” Bill says with a grin. He turns his eyes to Eddie, and rings through the drinks. 

“You two know each other?” Eddie asks Bev quietly as they take their seats at Bev’s claimed table. He wraps his hands securely around his cup, although he doesn’t need to leech the warmth from it; it takes so long for his winter-instincts to die off in the blur of spring and early summer. 

“Yeah, we actually went to middle school together back in Portland,” Bev says, taking a long sip of her coffee. She looks relieved to finally have one in her grasp. “Haven’t seen him since, and then he appears in my regular coffee place.”

“Weird,” Eddie agrees. “But maybe it’s fate.” 

Bev turns a bewildered look on Eddie, then lets out a sharp peal of laughter. “Oh my God, me and Bill? No way. He’s a little . . . well, we just wouldn’t work out, I don’t think. And I don’t really think I’m his type anyway.” 

“But you’re so . . .” Eddie frowns, studying Bev’s amused expression. “You’re so pretty and cool, you know? I figured you’d be anyone’s type.”

“Am I your type, Eddie?” 

“Given the box you check off regarding gender on all government surveys, I’m gonna say you aren’t.” 

Bev laughs again, though this one seems startled out of her. “Holy shit, really? I thought it was just a rumour or something. I’ve never found confirmation from you anywhere, so I didn’t want to make any assumptions.” 

“You didn’t find any because I’ve never given any.” Eddie shrugs, though the idea makes him a little bit anxious; were people really searching the internet for confirmation of his sexuality? He hadn’t realized how significant that would be to other people. Although, given that the personal life section was his first stop on celebrity wikipedia pages, he probably shouldn’t be very surprised. “I’m not in the closet or anything - Stan and Mike and everyone I work with know. My - my family knows.” He swallows, hard, the lump in his throat instinctive. “But I guess it just never felt like something I wanted to broadcast online.” 

“I get that,” Bev says, nodding sagely. Eddie gets the feeling that Bev can nod sagely to just about any revelation, no matter how odd; she doesn’t seem like a very phaseable person. “Ri - some people I know are the same, sort of. Well, no, maybe a little more closeted, but still. Similar.” 

Well, that is certainly a fascinating slip-up to Eddie. 

“I don’t know why I’ve never said anything really,” Eddie says, mulling it over, electing to ignore the implications of Bev’s slip-up. If Richie’s isn’t straight, it isn’t his place to pry into it. This is a highly professional business meeting. (Although now there’s a kernel of curiosity burning in Eddie’s chest. He tells himself that it’s the same kind that fuels his wikipedia page searching.) “I’ve got plenty of fantastic gay jokes that I could start using in episodes. It’s really a shame not to say any of them when we’re filming.” 

“Then I say go for it,” Bev laughs. She leans back in her seat, and Eddie is struck by how natural the two of them feel. He isn’t sure if having someone call you an elf on the shelf is just an excellent ice breaker, or if it’s because Bev is such a natural people-person, but it feels nice. Calm. Maybe he should get coffee with her more often. 

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says with a small smile. 

* * *

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @mayybel:** wait is this real??? do they know each other???? wHAT?????

**@mayybel reply to @sweetsboyeddie:** dude idk i just saw them together at fran’s, it’s wild - do you think they’re setting up that collab yet??

**@bonappletea reply to @mayybel:** oh my god oh my god oh my GOD bev !! pls just set them up on a date already !! 

**@xtinamay reply to @bonappletea:** how do you know they aren’t on a date?? they look pretty friendly . . . . . 

**@bonappletea reply to @xtinamay:** oh my god you’re so right - we don’t know if eddie’s even gay 

**@sweddie reply to @mayybel:** bro they look so fuckin into each other wth 

**@reillyrowland2 reply to @mayybel:** @eddiek @missmartian hey uhhhh ????? y’all would be so cute tbh, you could make fun of @trashbandicoot together

**@justalilbean reply to @mayybel:** @eddiek @missmartian can i suggest Bevie? bc wow cute ship name alert !! 

* * *

  
  


Richie has done it. He has made elven bread. It comes in small, palm-sized buns, is perfectly fluffy, and is seasoned with cardamom and thyme, because he is a genius who would use cardamom. 

He snaps a photo of a finished one with a huge bite taken out of it, and opens up twitter to spread the word of the impending video. 

He is instead met with a barrage of tagged replies to one tweet by @mayybel, and what he finds does not thrill him. If anything, it dulls the sweetness of his bread victory. 

Bev, who is curled up on the couch with a book about lesbian pirates, looks up when Richie comes marching in. “Everything okay?” 

He silently holds out his phone to her, and she reads through the tweets. Then he thinks he sees her read through them again. This second run-through seems to strike home, and she looks back up at him in abject horror. 

“You have got to be fucking  _ kidding  _ me!” 

* * *

  
  


Eddie, Stan, and Mike, being the terrible slackers that they are, aren’t occupied with elven bread recipes that afternoon and evening. They’re puttering around the test kitchen, boiling and baking and mixing things, which leaves them with ample moments to simply lean against a counter and scroll through their phone for a thirty second update on the outside world. 

It’s Mike who finds it, and shows Eddie with a grim expression. 

“You’re not gonna like this, but you should probably see it,” he says, and places his phone into Eddie’s hand like it’s a live grenade. 

Eddie only has to read through the tweets once to gently place the phone back into Mike’s hand, and immediately begin pacing. 

“Is he -?” Stan begins, but Mike holds the phone out for the second viewing of the afternoon. Stan’s brow crinkles as he reads, and he’s full-on frowning by the time he finishes. “What the fuck?” 

“Yes, Stanley, that is the exact right question!” Eddie gestures at Stan with both hands, but it doesn’t look violent in intent, so Stan doesn’t flinch back. “The perfect question: what the fuck?!” Then he turns around and switches off the burner under his pot of boiling simple syrup. Eddie Kaspbrak is furious, but he is also a professional. 

“You guys were just . . . getting coffee. How does that become -?”

Eddie cut in over Mike, which Mike doesn’t mind given the circumstances. “I do not know, Michael! I do not! Know! Shit.” He stirs the simple syrup into the bowl of his stand mixer, and busies himself with adding in the other ingredients. “Fuck. Shit. Motherfucker. Goddamnit. Shit.” 

“Yeah, no, definitely,” Mike agrees, tone placating. “But I mean . . . Eddie, how’re you gonna sort out . . . without . . .?” 

Eddie perks up, which startles Mike and Stan equally. They watch as he turns around, a slight glint in his eyes. 

“I can’t,” Eddie says. His voice is determined. “Screw it. I’m gonna do something stupid.” 

“You - well, you don’t have to -” Mike begins, but Eddie shakes his head. 

“Maybe I should rephrase that: I  _ want  _ to do something stupid.” 

And so he does. Eddie Kaspbrak, fingers flying over his phone screen, does something stupid. But _fuck_ does it ever feel cathartic. 

* * *

  
  


**@eddiek:** [casually steps out of the closet] anyway, about that roasted squash stan made  [ www.bonappetit.com/recipe/summer-roasted-squash-olive-oil ](http://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/summer-roasted-squash-olive-oil)

**@bonappletea reply to @eddiek:** oh my GOD 

**@sweddie reply to @eddiek:** an absolutely iconic coming out tweet 

**@amunchylad reply to @eddiek:** honey we been knew, but thanks for the confirmation - you and bev are such cute super-platonic friends !! 

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @eddiek:** #bevie is for friends and friends only babey !

* * *

It is eleven pm, and Richie and Bev have finally finished cleaning up the kitchen. The elven bread is being eaten, and they have been following the #bevie twitter drama for the past two hours. 

The update they’re now presented with is absolutely riveting. 

“It sucks that he had to confirm it like this,” Bev says, sounding genuinely apologetic. She’s wearing her ‘I’ll-buy-you-a-muffin-tomorrow’ face, so Richie knows she’s going to see Eddie tomorrow. This excites him more than he’s comfortable with. 

“Yeah, it really blows,” Richie agrees. He’s still staring at Eddie’s tweet - how can he be so calm and collected? He’s making a joke of it, but owning it so well; Richie could never master the two of those together. 

Bev must sense this odd frustration lingering on Richie because she raises a questioning eyebrow at him, before saying, “He’s still really brave for saying it. He told me he was already out in his personal life, he’d just never confirmed it online before - outside of an old tumblr he had in high school,” she adds with a snort. “Like the rest of us.” 

There’s something in Bev’s voice that Richie feels compelled to defend himself from, though he doesn’t like why. “He’s brave, yeah, but I mean - it sucks that he had to. It’s . . . I mean, it’s probably still hard - for him.” He’s getting awkward now, but he can’t seem to stop himself from elaborating. “Because, you know, it’s difficult . . . it’s private and shit, and people can be so . . .” 

“Richie?” 

“Yeah?” 

Bev pats the spot on the couch next to her. He takes the seat, and waits. Bev is smiling at him, soft and patient, though he knows her lecturing tone when he hears it. “It’s probably hard for some people. But it’s still - it can be worth it. If it’s something somebody is hypothetically thinking about, it can be helpful to talk it out with somebody they hypothetically know who hypothetically cares about them -” and by now, Bev’s smile has morphed from patient to teasing, “- because then they can hypothetically get more comfortable with hypothetically more people hypothetically knowing about their hypothetical identity, which hypothetically -”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, shut up,” Richie says, swatting her shoulder jokingly. Bev grins, and he does, too; it’s hard not to feel happy when Bev is happy. “I just . . .”

“Would this hypothetical person like to hypothetically talk some stuff out?” Bev asks. 

Richie sighs, and drapes himself over the back of the couch, like a listless shirt left out to dry from the wash. “I guess they hypothetically might.” 

* * *

  
  


**the only food in this video are my stress snacks**

[Richie Tozier is sitting cross-legged on his couch, and is eating out of a box of oreos. He is laughing with someone who’s standing behind the camera, and then winks at them. Bev Marsh’s voice comes from that spot moments later, to no one’s surprise.]

“Okay, okay, we’re rolling.”

[Richie nods and straightens, facing the camera directly. He fidgets with the oreo box, but takes a deep breath.]

“So, there’s some stuff I’d like to talk about, if everybody’s okay with that. Because I think I’m okay with it, now. Maybe.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was some fun drama, and will definitely be expanded upon in future chapters - mostly once eddie and richie (finally omg) meet. i hope everyone liked it!!
> 
> a fun update concerning this fic is that i have decided to destroy myself by writing two companion fics to it, all of them multi-chapter, all of them being updated simultaneously. this one focuses on reddie, the one i started publishing last night focuses on stanlonbrough, and the third that i'll start soon focuses on benverly. i just wanted room to properly flesh out each relationship, and not have to flop back and forth between all three every chapter (which is the one thing about my reddie/stenbrough holiday au fic that idk if i'm happy with rn). so they're all in one series now, but the stanlonbrough fic is right [https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741976/chapters/51868591](here)! hopefully everyone is okay with this. <3 <3
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if u wanna chat/yell or anything <3 <3


	5. the B stands for Bastard

The next time Eddie and Bev meet, the morning of the shoot, it is decidedly hidden away in her office. When he first steps through the door of the conference room, he and Bev simply look at each other for a very long moment. Then Bev cracks, and lets out an undignified snort, and nods to the chair across from hers at the table. 

“Dude, you okay?” 

Eddie shrugs, taking his seat, and then looks back up at Bev with an apology already on his lips. “I’m so -”

“If you’re about to apologize, then you aren’t nearly as cool as I thought you were,” Bev interrupts him. She doesn’t sound angry, which helps Eddie stay somewhat calm. But the disapproving quirk of her mouth is odd. 

“I just wanted to say - I mean - I didn’t mean to - to make anyone feel like maybe they had to, you know . . . do what I did.” Eddie stumbles through as much of his apology as he can without directly saying he’s sorry, which is more difficult than he thought it would be. 

Bev raps out a rhythm on the table with her fingertips, and Eddie raises his eyes to meet hers. She smiles, bright and growing, and Eddie felt a slight loosening in his chest. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she says, clearly choosing her words carefully. “It’s not . . . no one felt pressured, or anything, because of what you did. Things just move in alignment sometimes.” 

Richie’s name hangs palpably in the air between them, though Eddie isn’t sure if it’s an uncomfortable presence. It feels more like a truth shared between him and Bev, a thin little thread connecting them across the table. Though Bev’s portion of themunchlad’s videos has come up, neither of them have mentioned Richie during their meetings, or the messages they’ve sent each other on twitter. Bev and Eddie have danced around the munch lad himself for the past two and a half weeks, tactfully and discreetly as possible. Now, though, that respectful silence seems to carry too much weight to ignore any longer. 

“I’m glad that . . . they . . .” Eddie frowns, feeling ridiculous. They both know who they’re talking about. They both know why Eddie’s first instinct when stepping through the door was to apologize. He takes a breath, steadies himself, and continues, “I’m glad he didn’t feel obligated to do that. That’s always a shitty feeling, and I would never want to put that on somebody.” 

Bev nods, and the corners of her eyes crinkle in a true smile. Eddie looks at her then, and thinks that if she wasn’t a she, and he wasn’t into hes, that he, too, would be at least a little bit in love with her. 

“So, the wardrobe for the shoot is finally finished, and we were thinking of doing a test run for lighting and staging and whatnot. In the mood to be my guinea pig?” 

Eddie sighs, and Bev’s laugh rings through the room. 

* * *

  
  


[A photo of Eddie Kaspbrak, glaring up at the camera with a face scrunched in fury, mouth half-open, presumably saying something scathing. He’s dressed in a fluttery white shirt and butter-yellow slacks, and is standing in a barren studio with an enormous potted plant looming ominously in the background.]

365,782 likes

**bevmarsh** oh look, another incredibly romantic moment between two lovers

**billdenbro** you two are so cute and definitely in love 100% for sure

**eddiekaspbrak** oh my GOD when did you take this? 

**bevmarsh** when you were threatening my life for sticking you with the pin lmao

**munchladtozier** bevoluminous, i actually cannot believe you 

**bevmarsh** it was funny and i’m running with it, fuck you :)) 

* * *

The thing about Bev working with Eddie on this feature is that Richie has both met and not-met Eddie several times, in person and online. They have spent two and a half weeks in each other’s vicinity, glancing out of the corner of their eyes at each other, but never directly speaking to one another. Richie, for his part, is nervous; he keeps wondering if maybe his video was a tad too enthusiastic, and did really creep Eddie out. Eddie . . . well, Richie sometimes lies awake at night thinking Eddie hasn’t reached out because he  _ is  _ creeped out. (Then he usually gets up and makes scones, which are nice and time-consuming, at three am. Bev doesn’t mind waking up to fresh scones, anyway, though she does shoot him worried looks over each new batch.) 

Richie wonders exactly when he and Eddie will finally collide, given their absurd proximity, and wonders how horrendously embarrassing he’ll be when they finally do. He’s wondering all of this very loudly at this very moment, to Bill. (Bev had taken Richie down to Fran’s to introduce the two of them with a brief spiel of “both from Portland” and “he’s cool and talks about books a lot”. Richie has since then attempted to maintain with Bill that he doesn’t read - as in, refuses to engage with the written word in any form. He has Bev read Fran's menu options to him, just to keep up the charade.) It’s the end of his shift, and Bill is wiping down the counter at Fran’s while Richie sips on a mocha frappuccino and sighs heavily. 

“I just . . . I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, you know? I really do think he’s great, and a brilliant chef . . . he’s so clever, Bill. Have you seen any of his videos?” 

“Mhm,” Bill hums, tossing the rag into the sink on the far wall behind the counter, and sorting out the pile of discarded sugar packets people have left on the table. 

“Yeah, so I just - I really admire him, you know? Not in, like, a fanboy way, or whatever, but I think he’s good at what he does, and . . . god, you know how, like, you would want to meet another author who is cool and good at what they do, and is actually super successful doing it?” 

“Am I not successful?” Bill counters, tossing Richie a frown. 

“You aren’t published, Billiam,” Richie says, pointing at Bill with his frappuccino. Bill concedes with a one-sided shrug, and Richie continues. “But, so, yeah. It’s like that. But I think I fucked it up with the video - I was just trying to be nice or whatever, you know? But now I probably seem like a freak.” 

“You used one of his recipes,” Bill argues. “It’s normal for you to credit him.” 

“I called him cute,” Richie says. He can feel a blush creeping up his neck. “And I said he was the Einstein of baking.” 

“Oh.” Bill pauses, then snorts. “I mean, fuck, dude. You really did this to yourself, huh?” 

“That’s terrible advice, Denbrough,” Richie snaps, scowling. “Very nice, laugh at the man in the throes of despair!”

“Oh, relax. You’ll be fine, Eddie probably doesn’t even care that much. He’s never said anything about you being creepy when he’s here, even when Bev leaves him perfectly wide openings to.” 

“Bev leaves him openings to call me creepy?” 

“You know what I mean. When she brings you up, you know, without really bringing you up. Gives him the chance to say something about you.” 

“And what does he say?” Richie asks eagerly. 

“Nothin’. He’s chill, dude.” Bill gives him a reassuring smile, and Richie sighs again. 

“That was . . .  _ much  _ better advice. Just so you know. Officially a 7.2/10.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Make me,” Richie says with a smirk, sipping obnoxiously on his drink. Bill chucks a sugar packet at him. 

“I watched your video, by the way,” Bill says, and Richie can feel the flush start to return in full force. He glances down at the tabletop, uncertain if he wants to look at Bill in the eye during what’s coming. 

“I’m proud of you, man. That took serious guts.” Richie looks up, just for a moment, to see Bill watching him with a soft smile. It’s still reassuring, still the Bill Denbrough Smile Of Support, and Richie is grateful that Bev has such excellent ex-(middle school) boyfriends. “Anyone says anything different, and they’re a fucking asshole.” 

“Yeah.” Richie nods slowly, uncertainly. “Thanks. That - that means a lot.”  _ Coming from you  _ gets lodged in his throat, because it’s not quite true; it’s more like  _ coming from anyone _ . He drinks his coffee - well, mostly non-coffee - and clears his throat. “Should I start wearing merch for it?” 

Bill snorts. “Only the nice stuff. You gotta search out the cute gay stuff - so much of it is so tacky. And you aren’t a college freshman finally allowed to express their sexuality, so you can skip that phase entirely.” Bill shrugs, glancing away from Richie, focusing on straightening the already-straightened sugar packets. He doesn’t look nervous, but there’s something self-conscious in the set of his shoulders. “I can send you some links to some nice sites. If you want.” 

Richie’s eyebrows raise slowly as the meaning of Bill’s words dawn on him, and he smiles, brighter than the evening sunset outside. “Sure, that’d be cool. Although, and I think you should probably know this by now: tacky is sort of my Thing.” 

“I do know, actually,” Bill says, and they both laugh. It’s nice, and Richie likes how light he feels in this moment, even without Bev to catch him. 

* * *

  
  


**the only food in this video are my stress snacks**

[Richie Tozier lounges against his couch, half-draped over the arm, and he’s gesturing like a tipsy suburban wine mom on a rant about her husband. His hair is a mess from him running his fingers through it, and his box of oreos sits near-empty on the cushion next to him. Bev is giggling behind the camera.]

“Anyway, there was this one guy in my tenth grade algebra class - oh my  _ god,  _ could he get it! You’ve seen the yearbook photos, Bev, you fucking know I’m right.” 

“Don’t drag me into this, holy  _ shit _ .” 

“Into what?! Anyway, so there was that one, but also this guy I met at summer camp when I was a kid - was I a horny kid? Is that a terrible thing to say? I had a crush on like half the people I went to school with, I was  _ so  _ easy to fuckin’ impress -”

[Cut to Richie, sitting up a bit straighter on the couch, shrugging abashedly at the camera. There is no giggling, though from how Richie’s eyes dart up to a space above it occasionally, Bev is likely still behind it.] 

“Yeah, no one needs to see more of that footage. But anyway, the point is . . . I’m bi. Sexual. Bisexual. The big ol’ B. There’s a B in LGBT, and it stands for Bastard.” 

[Richie points to himself with his thumbs, giving the camera a cheesy, rakish grin.]

“That’s me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm publishing two back-to-back short chapters bc they don't quite meld together comfortably, but they're also both finished lmao
> 
> tysm to everyone for reading, and the Big Meeting is currently being written and i'm very hyped aaaahhhhhh
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you wanna chat/yell about these nerds/anything <3 <3


	6. are you homemade twizzlers? bc i think you're sweet too

New York City in August is stiflingly hot: the pavement shimmers, the sky is a blue so bright it hurts to look at, and the current of the rivers might just be the bubbling as they reach their boiling point. Or maybe Eddie’s thinking too much about the lobster boil he and Mike made for a video the other day. He can’t tell, and he almost blames the heat for his own confusion. How can he think straight when he being cooked from the inside out? 

“Mike,” he whines, forehead pressed to his desk. “Mike, I think I’m dying.” 

“God, you really aren’t made for heat, are you?” Mike asks with a snort. “Dude, we have air conditioning.” 

“Yeah? And also, like, ten ovens!” Eddie shoots back without moving. His eyes are closed, as if not seeing the sun will help him not feel the heat radiating off of it. This doesn’t work. 

“Eddie,” Stan says. Eddie doesn’t move. “Eddie. Eddie. Eddie, pick up your phone, or I will hide it again.” 

Eddie rolls his head to the side to glare at Stan; he sees his phone lighting up further away on his desk, its buzzing a steady sensation where his temple meets the desk. “Fine. You’re the worst, by the way.”

“I usually am,” Stan says flatly, turning back to his computer. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Eddie picks up his phone, and sees Bev’s contact photo on the screen: a picture of Bev crouching next to a dog they met on the sidewalk outside of Fran’s, giving the camera two thumbs up. He accepts the call, and doesn’t get a word out before Bev is saying “Eddie, go online!” 

“Oh?” Eddie puts the phone on speaker, sets it down on his desk, and opens his internet browser. “Online is a big place, Bev - where am I going?” 

“Where else? The Teen Vogue website, you glorious little fool,” Bev says; Eddie can hear her grin through the line. 

“Really?” His spine goes ramrod straight, and he opens up the website as fast as his fingers can type. It flashes across his screen - the cover feature is an indie singer with long black hair and blue tulle cascading around her - and scrolls and clicks through until he finds his feature. It’s not huge, just enough to have filled two pages of a regular print magazine, but Eddie still finds himself awestruck for a second. The two photos included are gorgeous, one with the yellow slacks Bev had tailored tightly to his legs, and the other a shot of him eating from a plate of brownies (Mike’s, which he had been sharing with Bev and the photographer during the shoot). 

“Damn, Eddie, you look pretty good,” Mike says from behind him; Eddie glances up to see his teasing smile. “Though I hope you shouted out whose brownies you brought?” 

“I did say it,” Eddie says, scanning through the article. “I don’t know where . . . oh, no.” 

“Oh no?” Mike leans down, reading through the article alongside Eddie. “Did you give them the wrong recipe?” 

“No.” Eddie’s eyes can’t tear away from the words, though he wants to so he can hide in the cool darkness of the cold storage room, or somewhere equally hidden. “I - I didn’t realize that this would be on the record.”

“What did you say?” Stan asks, bending over on Eddie’s other side to read. “It can’t be . . . oh.  _ Oh _ . Oh my god, Eddie.” He doesn’t sound panicked, which is good, but the startled amusement in his voice isn’t helping matters. 

“Yeah,  _ oh my god _ .” 

Eddie lets his forehead drop down to his desk again. 

* * *

  
  
  


He asks me to just call him Eddie - “I make homemade twizzlers for a living, you don’t have to dignify it.” 

**“Does working for the** **_Bon Appetit_ ** **Youtube channel not feel like a professional job?”**

Eddie laughs, and responds with a shrug: “I guess not? I think it depends on what we’re up to and who’s in the test kitchen - we’re all a sort of cooking family, so we do have a lot of fun, so it doesn’t feel like work. But it does take a lot of work to organize the videos and we put a lot of time and effort into them, so it still does sometimes. It’s as much work as a professional cooking show on cable, I think.” 

**“And you have as much of a fanbase as most professional shows, potentially even more. How does that affect your work?”**

“Well, we don’t know about that for sure - Alton Brown’s reach is long, and pretty hard to measure.” Eddie laughs again. “But it influences how we sort of work on-camera, and how we come up with videos - we’re making what a specific audience might want to see.”

**“You yourself have garnered quite the following on other social media platforms, and even a few notably public fans.”**

“Are you talking about Rich- themunchlad?” 

**“So you are aware of him beyond his one video. How does your relationship with other cooking content creators on the platform affect you, and the rest of the team?”**

“Well, it definitely encourages us, makes us feel like we’re doing something worthwhile. It’s always nice to be recognized by your peers.” 

**“Very true. But I wonder, for you particularly, how it felt to see that first video of his, and if you’ve kept up with his continued praise of your series?”**

“I . . . he’s very flattering. We’re all very flattered. He’s very [. . .] talented. He’s good, on his channel. So it’s nice to know he also likes our stuff.”

**“And that teased collab - would you ever consider it? And how do you imagine it happening?”**

“I think it would be really [. . .] fun. And he’s, you know, so talented, and good at his stuff, that it would be good. He’s good.” 

**“And Bev over there is a friend of Richie Tozier’s, so I have to ask: have you two met? And what’s so good about Richie Tozier From The MunchLad Kitchen?”**

“I see what you did there, that’s [. . .]. We haven’t met, no, or talked or anything, so there’s not much to tell [. . .]. He’s very good. He’s funny, I [. . .] I don’t have a list, like he did. I’m not sure. I guess [. . .] Bev says he’s sweet. I believe her. He seems sweet, you know, and I guess [. . .] yeah.” 

* * *

  
  


Richie is asleep on the couch. He didn’t mean to be: he was watching Arrested Development and then, suddenly, out like a light. Maybe it has something to do with his inability to get a wink of sleep when he thinks about Eddie Kaspbrak, and coming to inevitable contact with him. Despite Bill’s kind reassurance, the idea is still haunting him. 

So he’s fast asleep when Bev comes home, which is why she has to push him off the couch to tell him to check the website. 

“You didn’t  _ have  _ to push me!” He exclaims, though he’s already clambering back up onto it and pulling out his laptop. 

“I did, actually, because you need to be one hundred percent awake to read this shit,” Bev says. “I didn’t write it, I’m only in charge of the photos - which, uh, you’re welcome, by the way -” 

Richie physically chokes on his own spit as he’s reading, and Bev knows he’s found it. “Yeah, dude. He . . . he said that.” 

_ He seems sweet. _

He’s going to explode. He can sense it. Richie leaps to his feet and starts pacing, wide circles around the apartment to try and rid himself of the energy building up under his skin. He needs to move for a bit, go running or something, maybe not running because he doesn’t run, but maybe -

“Dude.” Bev’s hands are on his shoulders, and she’s grinning at him. Richie comes to a halt. He can feel himself smiling, too, and it’s as if the realization lets him put himself into the smile, really emotionally commit to it; he feels light and glowing and floating, he feels ready to fly right out the apartment window. 

“Dude, that’s real, I was standing right there,” she says. “I think he didn’t know it was part of the interview, because Veronica is weird and sneaky like that, but it was and here you go. Early birthday present.” 

“He thinks I’m sweet.” The words are like candy on his tongue. Taffy, all sugary and fruity and lasting forever, lingering well after it’s been swallowed. It lingers. The sweetness.  _ He seems sweet _ . “Fuck, Bev. He doesn’t think I’m a creep. We could be friends. Like, actual acquaintances.” 

“Yes! I have his number, if you want, or -”

“No,” Richie says, opening his phone. “I want to do this the old-fashioned way.” 

* * *

  
  


Eddie is munching out of a bag of doritos when he gets the notification. 

He’s managed to turn this into a very successful self-pity night, he thinks: junky snacks, a Nicholas Sparks movie on in the background, and in his pyjamas by five o’clock. Mike and Stan had seen him off when he left work with their (teasing) condolences. Mike had leaned in and reassured him that what he said isn’t even that embarrassing, and Eddie had had to turn on his heel and leave. It  _ is  _ embarrassing,  _ desperately  _ embarrassing, and he needs to wallow in it for a couple of hours before getting his shit together and moving on with his life. Is that so wrong?

So he’d said Richie Tozier seems sweet, and good, and talented, and funny . . . does Eddie have his own list about Richie? Is that what’s happened here: a role reversal where Eddie needs to sing Richie’s praises from the rooftops? He isn’t sure how he feels about that prospect. He was just trying to be nice in the interview - he still thought Richie was immature, and ridiculous, and maybe too obscene on twitter for Eddie to have followed him without reason (does he have a reason now?). So he doesn’t like Richie Tozier as, like, a person, right? He doesn’t hate him, he doesn’t think he’s an idiot, but he . . . he knows he just wouldn’t get along with him. Being in a kitchen with Richie sounds like an absolute nightmare to Eddie. 

The notification goes off on his computer, which he tried to get some work done on before shoving off his lap and onto the other end of the couch. Eddie scrambles over to it awkwardly, and picks it up to read the alert. 

**Twitter - one new message**

Eddie frowns. Despite his following, people really don’t DM him on twitter that often; it’s something he politely requests of followers he doesn’t know.  _ Someone clearly didn’t get that memo _ . 

He opens up the sight and clicks on his DMs, ready to let them know his general policy surrounding the messages, when he sees the username. 

**@trashbandicoot:** hey, are you homemade twizzlers? bc i think you’re pretty sweet too 

Eddie falls back onto his couch cushion, aghast as he stares at the message. That’s Richie Tozier in his DMs. Richie, who Eddie has been so careful not to speak with or interact with directly, friend of Bev, who is now Eddie’s friend, potential future collaborator according to Eddie’s video supervisor. Richie, within reach. 

  
  


**@eddiek:** what the fuck was that?? 

Eddie flops onto his side, staring at his laptop. Richie DMed him, after two months of awkward silence and non-interactions, and it’s a fucking  _ baking pick up line?  _ Some part of Eddie feels like, having seen Richie’s videos, he shouldn’t be this surprised; but most of Eddie still just wants to march over to the cozy apartment he’s peeked into through the internet, and give Richie a piece of his mind in person. Bev has invited him over a few times, although Eddie has declined each one. Maybe now is the time to pull one of his classic Eddie Shout-And-Dips: it’s where Eddie storms into a room, shouts about something, and then vanishes again. Mike named it, and Stan brings it up constantly to tease him. 

One of the only thing stopping him from doing a Shout-And-Dip is the fact that Bev, having never gotten a yes, has never had reason to text their address to Eddie, so he doesn’t actually know where to go. 

Suddenly thinking about Bev, Eddie has an idea: he calls Bev.

* * *

Bev’s phone is going off on the coffee table, and she has to pry herself out of Richie’s celebratory/relief hug to pick it up. What she sees on the screen is enough to send her into a fit of uncontrollable excited giggles. 

“What?” Richie demands, watching her with wide eyes from the arm of the couch he’s perched on. He seems both desperate to know and also not ready for any more surprises. Richie is surprised-out, which is a state Bev is excited to see him in. In her humble opinion, it’s been too long since he was this thrilled. 

“You’ll never fucking guess who it is,” Bev says with a grin, holding the phone to her chest while it rings. Eddie will keep letting it ring, she can sense it; the guy called her for a reason, and he doesn’t seem the type to let something go that easily. 

“Who? My dad?” Richie jokes, and Bev rolls her eyes. 

“Ugh, god no, you think he has my number? It’s way better than that.” She turns the phone around, holding it out to him, and Richie looks about ready to keel over off the couch. 

“No fucking way.” 

“Yes! He doesn’t think you’re a creep,  _ and  _ he’s calling your best friend! You’re in the clear, dude!” Bev clicks accept call, and Richie dives onto the couch, watching her with awe and relief in his gaze. 

“What’s up my dude?” Bev asks. 

Eddie hesitates before saying, “Um, can I - can I talk to you?” 

“Sure, yeah, what’s up?” Bev bites her lip to keep from giggling, as she watches Richie squirm around nervously and excitedly on the couch, like a hyperactive worm. 

“Richie, uh . . . well, he DM’ed me on twitter, and I wanted to know if . . . well, do you know what’s up with the pick-up line?” 

Bev nearly drops the phone. She whips around to stare at Richie. “I don’t know what’s up with the pick-up line, actually, but Richie’s sitting on the couch right now telling me not to hand him the phone, so, if it’s okay with you, I think I’m gonna hand him the phone.”

“Oh, uh, okay, well -” Eddie stumbles. 

Bev chucks her phone at Richie, who fumbles as he panics and catches it, clapping it to his ear so hard it probably hurt. His voice sounds wobbly and strange as he says “Uh, hi?” and Bev takes a seat on the carpet, watching the chaos unfold. She loves moments where she is allowed to be the best, and worst, friend imaginable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up everybody!! second chapter of the two-chapter-update - the next one might be a few days bc i'm kinda busy with work, but i want to start taking my time with these fics and really doing the ideas justice. hopefully a slower update schedule but better/longer chapters is a fair trade off. 
> 
> tysm to everyone who's reading, you're all so so kind, and everyone who leaves comments is an angel and i adore you <3 <3
> 
> also happy harry styles album release day lmao <3


	7. where's the collab

The first phone call between Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier lasts thirty five seconds. Much of it is silence, broken only by Richie going “oh, sorry, I just -” and then Eddie telling him not to apologize, and then Richie going “sure, yeah” and then the line going dead. It ends with Richie looking at Bev with wide, panicked eyes, and Eddie in his living room, frowning at the ceiling. They don’t contact each other again after this. 

* * *

  
  


Eddie and Mike call each other at the same time. They both hang up, Mike with a tired sigh, Eddie groaning in frustration, and then redial ten seconds later. Eddie chucks his phone to the end of his bed after the second failed attempt to contact Mike, and only perks up from his pile of pillows and blankets when he hears his ringtone shimmering away a few feet from him. He lunges forward, and feels nothing but relief when he sees Mike’s contact photo on the screen. He loves Stan dearly - he’d murder him, sure, but the loving part still stands - but he does not want any unnecessary negativity right now, and Stan has been carrying that around like a personal stormcloud for days. 

(Eddie knows it’s because Mike invited Barista Bill and Ben. He knows this because Stan glowers at thin air every time Mike mentions the two of them coming to the cookout. He also knows Stan hates Barista Bill, for somewhat ambiguous reasons. He mostly knows this because he has begun taking pages from Bev Marsh’s book. Page number one is dedicated exclusively to having omniscient knowledge about all your friends, which is apparently accomplished by observing things like Stan ranting to Eddie about how much he hates a mysterious nameless barista, and then asking Ben to find out who it is. Eddie is starting to find Bev less and less intimidating through this process.)

So Eddie sees Mike’s beautiful face, hits accept, and puts the phone to his ear to say “Oh my god” just as Mike goes “Oh my  _ god _ ” on the other end of the line. 

“No, no, wait -” Mike says quickly. 

“Yeah, no, fuck, don’t worry -” Eddie says at the same time. 

“Shit, wait - you go,” Mike practically shouts, and the line goes quiet for a split second before Eddie is launching into his tale of woe. 

“So I’m a dumbass, Michael,” Eddie moans. He’s draped over his mattress now, his feet dangling off the edge. “Because I invited Richie fucking Tozier to the cookout.” 

“Oh shit, you  _ didn’t _ ,” Mike says. Eddie can hear his muffled laughter, and chooses to be merciful and not call him out on it. He can laugh at Eddie’s struggles if he’s suffering himself. It’s only fair. 

“I  _ did _ , because I’m a dumbass with no forethought, and I was talking to Bev and just said  _ oh hey we’re doing a thing do you wanna come?  _ and of course she was at home with Richie, so she goes  _ oh can richie come?  _ and I’m not gonna say  _ no _ , so I said  _ yeah, sure, cool, whatever  _ and she totally knows I’m dying because Bev is the worst.” 

“Bev is the best, but continue,” Mike says. Eddie knows Mike has met Bev all of twice, both times when she was lingering in Fran’s chatting with Bill. But he also knows what Bev is like, and so doesn’t question Mike’s judgement on this one. 

“So I’m just screwed or whatever. Because he’s gonna be there tomorrow, and Adam’s talking about a collab soon, and we’re probably gonna set that up tomorrow, and I still -” Eddie stops, sighs, tries to find the best way to phrase this. “I don’t know if I want to?” 

“Eddie! Have you been leading this poor guy on?” Mike demands, and Eddie nearly shrinks from the phone. “You hinted at it -”

“Yeah, but, like, I didn’t know my actions would have consequences!” Eddie squawks. “So now I have to get in a kitchen with him, and honestly I think that might kill me.” 

“Oh, he’s not that bad.”

“He’s out of his mind at best,” Eddie argues. He flips himself over onto his stomach, and kicks his legs up absently. He needs to move, fidget around to expel some of his nervous energy; just thinking about meeting Richie tomorrow is stressing him out. “And I’ve never even met him, and I just - ugh. This is gonna suck.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Mike agrees, which gets a frustrated groan out of Eddie. “What?”

“God, you’re supposed to give me advice, aren’t you? Comfort me in my hour of need?”

“Dude, I’ve got nothing. What kind of advice did you want?” 

“The kind that tells me I’ll be fine if I just pretend to be sick and stay home?” 

“Fine. Be sick, stay home, you coward. But if you don’t, everything will still be fine, I swear to god.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks hopefully. 

Maybe he sounds desperate enough for Mike to throw him a bone, which is both relieving and embarrassing, because he does offer a moment of solace. “Yeah. Richie’s nice and adores you, and probably won’t kill you, even by accident.” 

Eddie smiles, slow and sweet. Nothing like a good Mike Hanlon phone call to make someone smile like that. He knows he’ll go back to freaking out the moment he hangs up, but this split second of calm is the reprieve Eddie was looking for when he called Mike. 

He readies himself to dispense some decent wisdom next. “So, what’s your nervous breakdown about?” 

“I invited Bill, and Stan hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday,” Mike says, and Eddie can hear the sudden panic creeping into his voice. It’s not too urgent, but enough that Eddie knows he’ll be needed for a little while. He settles himself more comfortably in bed. 

“Alright. I guess we gotta plan Operation Help Mike Not Die.” 

* * *

  
  


Eddie spends an hour figuring out what to wear. Stan’s capsule wardrobe can’t even save him from this conundrum, though that might be because it isn’t due to vanity, but a conflict between style and strategy. Eddie wants to look good, but he also needs to survive an entire afternoon with Richie Tozier. He wears the shirt and cotton capris that he thinks are cute and that he will miss the least if they get ruined. (He isn’t sure precisely what accidents Richie might incur today, but he’s seen enough of his videos to know how clumsy he is. And Eddie is not getting barbecue anything on one of his favourite shirts for Richie fucking Tozier.) 

So Eddie takes forever, and he’s on the ferry crossing into Manhattan almost twenty minutes later than he’s supposed to be, which isn’t that big a deal. Twenty minutes, who cares? Normally, Eddie really wouldn’t, because it’s a party and he knows Stan and Mike can cover for him if anyone’s looking for him, which basically no one ever is. But today? Twenty minutes feels like he’s days late. 

He rushes down the street to the space the magazine has rented for the event, and slips through a throng of people milling about the entrance. He’s got two texts from Mike asking where he is, and that isn’t a great sign. 

The place is crowded and loud, and most of the ticket-buyers haven’t even gotten inside yet. Eddie hurries through clusters of people, uncertain but searching for a familiar face, when he hears a familiar voice instead.

“Eddie!” He whips around to find Mike making his way over to him. He looks amazing in his soft shirt and dark jeans, casually elegant, but there’s rising panic in his eyes as he barrels towards Eddie. “Where’ve you been?”

“You know, delays,” Eddie says with an absent wave, glancing around them. Mike standing by his side feels like an anchoring island from which Eddie can scout out the corners of the room, searching for another, less-familiar face. When his search yields nothing, he looks up at Mike. “You okay?” 

“That’s, uh,” Mike starts, then stops, then sighs. He does all of this very quickly, as if uncertain how to explain his predicament. “Things have been happening.” 

“Things?” Eddie echoes. “What’s ‘things’? Is ‘things’ bad?” 

“Um, they’re - things might be bad,” Mike says haltingly. “But maybe not? I don’t - oh, let’s just go outside.” He takes Eddie’s hand and tugs him in a very certain direction, which is something Eddie can get behind; he likes the feeling of walking somewhere with a purpose right now. 

“You’re being really confusing,” Eddie complains as they step through a back door and into a patio space, where all of Bon Appetit’s cookout has been set up. Their sides are going to be on tables for serving inside, leaving several other chefs to work outside at the barbecue. Eddie can’t spot Stan anywhere among them, and taps Mike on the shoulder to get his attention. “Where’s Stan?”

“I -” Mike freezes, then jerks his chin at something behind Eddie and whispers, “Over there. You’ll see.”

Eddie turns to see Stan, clutching a glass of chardonnay, and making unflinching eye contact with Bill from Fran’s, who is in a polo shirt and holding a beer. They look tense, like if he reached a hand in the space between them he might touch a live current. 

Eddie understands Mike’s panic now. 

“Okay, so part one of the plan is no longer . . . happening,” Eddie says, turning back to Mike. “But you can still save this. They’re not - I mean, has Stan talked to you?” Mike nods, though he doesn’t look happy about this. “Well, then, you guys are - I mean, you can - well . . .” He looks back to Stan and Bill. Bill opens his mouth to say something, and Eddie hisses “Dude go, do something, don’t let them -”

“Eddie?” 

It’s Eddie’s turn to freeze. He turns slowly, a full 180, and meets the bright green eyes of Bev Marsh, who grins at him. There’s something in her expression that tugs at Eddie’s brain, like a warning; a tightness in her smile, a sadness to her eyes. But Eddie is a panic-prone man currently in a panic, so he ignores this tug. 

Mostly because, just behind Bev, is a towering, lanky figure in a giraffe-patterned button down. 

“Hey,” Eddie says slowly, as if he’s not sure where the word is going. 

Richie Tozier smiles a small smile, and gives him an awkward wave that knocks over a potted plant. “Hi.” 

* * *

  
  


[A photo of Richie Tozier standing arm-in-arm with Bev Marsh on a fancy patio. They’re both dressed up, and Bev is shielding her eyes with her hand, while Richie wears a pair of electric blue sunglasses. They’re grinning, likely approaching laughter, and they stand out brilliantly against the mingling chaos of people around them.] 

14,356 likes

**themunchlad** yo @bonappetit was nice enough to host a very fun very rad partay, and my best friend and i ate so many chicken wings holy shit

**bevmarsh** @themunchlad i fucking want those sunglasses back btw

**themunchlad** @bevmarsh riiiiiggggghhhhht ohhhhhkay surrrrreeeee 

**taylorwill** oh my god am i insane or is that eddie kaspbrak in the bg???

**bonappp** holy shit you’re SO RIGHT

**taylorhill** right behind richie wtf !!!!

**celiabaker** that’s 100% eddie with them and i am 100% done oh my god

**batestkitsch** oh???? mr. kaspbrak ????? WHERE IS THE COLLAB??????? 

* * *

  
  


Richie has never felt so stupidly nervous in years (read: weeks), and for once it’s not (exclusively) about Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen. Today, it’s about the BA test kitchen in its entirety. 

Because Richie is going to meet all of them. In, like, two hours. 

The Wednesday a week and a half ago, when Bev got off the couch and started aimlessly wandering the apartment while on a phone call with Eddie, seems centuries ago. Richie barely remembers saying yes to the question of wanting to go to a BA cookout thing, Bev raising imploring eyebrows at him until he nodded. 

Now, he’s draped over her bed in his pyjamas, fidgeting with the soft fabric of her sheets. They’re lilac and have flowers stitched along their edges, and were a gift from Bev’s aunt. When Bev unpacked the mailed house-warming gift two years ago, Richie had initially thought Bev’s aunt was way off base and had pulled the classic Guardians Who Don’t Know Their Kids stunt. But Nettie Keaton apparently understood Bev to a psychic degree, as Bev had taken to the sheets immediately, and fashioned herself a loose, floaty skirt that she claimed was inspired by them. 

(Richie had watched Aunt Nettie’s prophecy fulfilled with a quiet envy, though he forced it to rest under his happiness for his best friend. Bev, he suspected, knew this, but said nothing. He would bring it up when he was ready. She had inherited Nettie’s gift for predicting just what people need and want.) 

Anyway, Richie’s laying all over Bev’s nice lilac sheets, and fidgeting, and panicking, while Bev rifles through her closet and tosses things over her head and onto her bed but, consequently, mostly Richie. God, he never thinks about the consequences of anything, does he? 

“I can fucking hear you panicking,” Bev says, not turning around, and Richie thinks about protesting for a moment, before realizing how stupid that would be. 

“Shut up,” he says instead, very cleverly. He drags a hand along the cool bedspread, and gets a t shirt in the face for his response. (And, yeah, it was definitely aimed.) 

“You don’t have to, you know,” Bev continues, like he hasn’t said anything. She finally emerges from her closet, clutching a small treasure trove of options, and dumps them next to Richie. “They all think you’re cool, and you won’t even be the only non-BA person going. Bill and I aren’t even, like, cooks. I’m actually the  _ least  _ culinary person going, so technically  _ I  _ should probably be the most nervous.” 

“Yeah, but that means you aren’t trying to, like, compete in the same field!” Richie snaps. Just for good measure he adds, “And I thought Ben was going?” and gets to see Bev’s eyes widen just for a moment, startled and a bit lost, like someone being snapped out of a daze. 

“He had to cancel,” she says quickly, then scowls at him. “And don’t change the fucking subject.” 

“Okay, okay! I just - this is a big deal. If I get featured in a collab with one of the test kitchen people - Eddie or Mike or even Stan or anyone, it doesn’t matter,” he tacks on, just as Bev is going to say something to probably embarrass him further, “then I’ll be, like, genuinely relevant and, you know . . . I mean, it’s a big deal. I’m not just some idiot making elven bread in my kitchen.” 

Bev gets halfway to a smile by the time she wraps her arms around Richie in a tight hug. She’s taller than him like this, and she smells like her fruity perfume. “You never were some idiot making elven bread in our kitchen. But I get it.” She leans back, fully smiling now, and leaves the warm imprint of her arms on Richie’s shoulders and back; it feels nice, homey. “Remember my fuckin’ Teen Vogue interviews?” 

“Ugh, that was stressful just to watch,” Richie says, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, you’re a genius, and they’re lucky they hired you.”

“True,” Bev says with a firm nod. “Speaking of which, you need to get dressed. I don’t care what you put on as long as it isn’t the oysters shirt.” 

“Just because of that, I’m wearing it,” Richie teases as she shoves him towards her bedroom door. 

“Fuck you,” Bev says without malice, before closing the door in his face. Richie grins. 

* * *

  
  


The cookout is crowded. Not too crazy - this event doesn’t have the same energy as the KKB concert Richie nearly crowd-surfed at last summer - but there are enough people milling around and chatting that he and Bev have a hard time weaving their way through the crowds. 

“How’re we gonna find them?” He asks nervously, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Bev had glared at him when he first emerged from his room, clad in a button down printed with tiny giraffes, but during the course of their subway journey to the cookout, she had apparently grown much more approving of his fashion choices. She said it was “bold”, which Richie hopes isn’t stylist-code for “hideous but worn by my best friend”. 

“He’s not answering my texts,” Bev says, chewing on her lower lip, before nodding towards a nearby door leading outside. “But if we haven’t found them inside, then maybe outside is the way to go.” 

They head outside, the sunshine beaming down on them, the heat returning like a gentle cloud all around them. Richie runs a hand through his hair, which Bev says is flattening his curls; remembering this, he ruffles it, which he thinks might just get it to stick up stupidly. 

Then Bev is stopping short, and grabbing Richie by the forearm and hissing “Don’t be an idiot and you’ll be fine” and letting him go to take a step forward. Richie wants her to come back. 

“Eddie?” 

Richie watches as Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen, live and in the flesh, turns around in front of them to look at Bev with wide, startled eyes. Richie also watches as Eddie’s gaze shifts and lands directly on him, and he hopes his face just looks blotchy from the heat. He smiles, tentative, and gives a broad wave of greeting that he hopes comes across as friendly, but instead whacks against a potted plant on a patio table next to him. It tips over, and Richie turns to see the spill of soil and fern on the glass table. No one has moved or said anything to him, so he hurried starts trying to stuff the soil and the fern back into the pot before anybody notices. He can feel Eddie’s gaze on him still. His hands twitch weirdly, and he flicks dirt onto himself by accident. 

Fan-fucking-tastic. 

* * *

  
  


[A photo of Eddie Kaspbrak, Mike Hanlon, and Bill Denbrough standing in a huddle against a brick wall, all holding drinks. Eddie’s is bright orange and has a skewer of mango sticking out of it. Mike is laughing at something, a hand on Bill’s forearm, as Eddie stares at the camera with a bright smile.] 

13,456 likes

**eddiekaspbrak** the BA summer cookout gathering was a success!!! also @bettyripper ’s mango coladas are heavenly go make some before you have to go back to school 

**bateskitsch** where’s the collab

**angiethom** where’s the collab

**bonappp** where’s the collab

**munchyboy** where’s the collab

**eddiebakes** where’s the collab

**fromthetestkitchen** where’s the collab

**mikehanlon** where’s the collab

**eddiekaspbrak** you’ve got to be kidding me 

* * *

After Richie Tozier nearly kills a plant and tries to revive it, he turns back to Eddie, soil dusted onto his hands, caked in his nailbeds. He smiles, though it twitches strangely on his face. “Sorry - hi. What’s up?” 

Eddie looks down at Richie’s hand, covered in dirt, and nearly sighs. He looks back up at Richie, not reaching out, and says “Oh, hi. I’m Eddie. And, uh, nothing much.” 

“Cool,” Richie says, hand dropping back to his side, where it dangles limply. “That’s cool. I’m Richie.” 

“I know,” Eddie says before he can rethink the implications of that sentence. It’s all he can do not to wince. 

“Well,” Bev says, drawing out the word like it will connect them like a bridge over the empty air between them. “I’m gonna head over to the drinks table. I’ll grab you whatever the fuck I want to. Be right back.” Then she darts off, like the terrible human she is. 

“I hope she finds something strong,” Richie says with a stuttered laugh. “I’m ready to fuckin’ party!” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He glances over at Brad, their video director, who’s munching on shrimp cocktails and talking about baseball stats with a girl from accounting. “Party. Definitely.” 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, by the way,” Richie says. Eddie looks back up at him - and wow,  _ up  _ is the right word. Richie is taller than his videos make him seem, easily towering a head and a half above Eddie. His smile is the same as it is on camera though: just as crooked, just as endearing. It’s what stops Eddie from leaving the conversation entirely. “I was starting to think we never would.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, nodding too slowly and for far too long. He forces himself to stop. “Same.” 

“Anyway, I’m - oh, and here she is, as promised!” Richie crows, almost in relief, as Bev reappears bearing drinks for everyone trapped in this bubble of discomfort. 

She hands Eddie an orange cocktail with a raised eyebrow. “You good?” 

He shrugs and takes a sip, then a very long second sip. These must be Betty’s concoctions. He makes a mental note to thank her for being born. 

“So, Kaspbrak, what here do we have you to thank for?” Bev asks this with her usual confidence, eyes glittering as she hands Richie a beer. 

Eddie gestures to the door back inside. “Oh, just some appetizers. Stan’s and Mike’s are in there, too. Small fish, big pond, you know.” 

There’s a shift in Richie’s face, his smile wider and his eyes brighter. He looks less like he’s ready to crumple at any moment, and his voice is laden with a new kind of self-assurance. It sends a flash of astonishment through Eddie, watching Richie morph so subtly before his eyes into the cocky, loud charmer from his videos. He looks right at Eddie and says, “In that case, we should go and put Eddie Spaghetti’s appetizer to the test.” 

Eddie can only bite out a quick “God, don’t call me that” before he’s following after Richie and Bev. 

* * *

  
  


The cookout is either going marvelously, or horrifically. Richie is having a hard time distinguishing between these two states, mostly because he isn’t sure what his exact priorities are. 

On the one hand, the Bon Appetit video director, Brad, has been chatting with him off and on again for the past hour, and seems really keen on making a collab between the test kitchen and Richie’s channel. This, at least, Richie is sure is good news. Brad is cool, and has enough dad energy to keep Richie from being too nervous around him. Everything about this arrangement feels natural and easy, in a way he didn’t believe networking could be. (At least, not the way Bev has described her experiences with it.) 

On the other hand, Richie has spent the entire cookout so far annoying the living shit out of Eddie Kaspbrak From The BA Test Kitchen. 

He hadn’t meant to at first. The “Eddie Spaghetti” really did just slip out; the cadence and rhyme was too good for his brain to ignore it. But when Richie got a first hand look at Eddie’s indignant reaction - the way he flushed and chucked a hasty “don’t call me that” at Richie - he certainly hadn’t been motivated to stop calling him that. 

He’d also begun to slip deeper and deeper into what Bev liked to call his Trashsona (lovingly, he’s sure). Essentially, Trashsona Richie has all the confidence that actual Richie can’t quite muster in situations like this, where he feels about two feet tall in the face of scrutiny from people who are pretty much his peers. He can throw on a quick mask of one-liners and winking and bad jokes and flirting, and call it a day. And Trashsona Richie isn’t entirely not-Richie, he thinks; he’s just a highly distilled version of him. Easier to parade around at parties and dinners and nightclubs, easier to carry him through conversations where the only onus on him is to charm strangers. If he’s a tad loud and a little obnoxious in the process, it’s not always the worst thing - Richie can be charmingly flawed way better now than he could as an obnoxious fifth grader or college freshman. 

Eddie doesn’t seem to enjoy this Trashsona in the least. Mike humours him and lets him banter, and Bill breaks his glaring at Stan to laugh at his jokes, and Bev is a willing participant in all his melodramatic story-telling, as always. Even Stan drops the veneer of ice he’s been wearing all afternoon to crack exactly one reluctant smile or shoot a comeback or three at Richie. But Eddie Kaspbrak is entirely unmoved, glaring and scowling and grumbling and snapping at Richie every time he calls him Eds. Eddie’s on his third mango colada, and Richie doesn’t know if this is a bad sign or par for the course; Eddie doesn’t seem to like strangers in general, if his brief and awkward, but polite, interactions with guests are anything to go by.

So, when Richie has finalized the collaboration between his channel and the test kitchen channel with Brad, he does the smart thing and turns immediately to Eddie and goes, “Hey, should we make Toxic Wastes?” 

Eddie frowns, and sets down his empty colada glass. “What?” 

Richie grins. “Toxic Wastes. You know, the super sour things, and they come in little packages shaped like waste bins, and it’s, like, green apple, and blue raspberry, and, like, grape? I think? Hey, Bev, are there grape Toxic Wastes?” 

Bev turns her head to Richie, leaning away from her conversation with Bill, and pulls a face is absolute disbelief. “No, God, that’d be awful.” 

“Okay, so no grape,” Richie amends, turning back to Eddie, who’s watching him like he’s a horrifying but fascinating reality show on TLC. “Thoughts?”

“Sure, fuck it, sure,” Eddie says with a deep sigh. “We’ll make Toxic Waste.” 

“Sick!” Richie holds up his hand for a high-five that Eddie does not return; Richie high-fives himself instead. If no one else is going to do it, he can do it himself. That’s fine. Doesn’t hurt his feelings at all. Trashsona Richie doesn’t have hurt feelings. (Another convenient part of this party trick.) 

Eddie disappears into the crowd without another word, and returns with a fourth colada minutes later. 

* * *

  
  


**@trashbandicoot:** okay so like @bonappetit ???? y’all are the coolest, thank you so much #munchappetit

**@bonappletea reply to @trashbandicoot:** OH MY GOD IT WORKED !!!!! is it you and eddie?? or you and stan????

**@sweddie reply to @bonappletea:** i would kill for a richie+mike collab honestly

**@reillyrow reply to @trashbandicoot:** okay but pls do it with eddie holy shit

**@mikehanlon reply to @trashbandicoot:** i know everything, and it’s taking so much to hold all my secrets in right now wow - also good to have you man!! 

**@bonappletea reply to @mikehanlon:** uHHHHHHHH !!!!!!!!?????? 

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @mikehanlon:** my dude this better be about a richie/eddie collab, bc i swear to god 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i return!! basically all my exams are finished, so i'm finally able to get back to work on these bad boyz. i've got a relatively clear timeline laid out for the Elaborate Coffeeshop AU now, and i think the structure is going to help me write the chapters more easily. also: everyone who has commented and subscribed and left kudos on this work is the sweetest!! tysm for that, you're all lovely <3 <3 there is another work in this series, focusing on the mike/bill/stan dynamics that are hinted at in this chapter, so go check that out if you're enjoying this au. 
> 
> (also the mike & eddie friendship is so much fun to write, i love the balance between Eddie "i freak out over hand germs and also would kill a man on the nyc subway" Kaspbrak and Mike "gentle farm boy who just wants love" Hanlon) 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you wanna chat/yell or anything <3 <3


	8. The Toxic Waste Incident

“Just calm down.”

“I don’t need to calm down, I need to get some more coffee.” 

“Dude, that’s, like, the exact opposite of what you need.” 

Mike and Eddie are in a standstill on either side of one of the long islands stretching the width of the test kitchen. It’s early, too early to be really populated with buzzing chatter and typing and chefs moving about each other to mix and pour and stir and bake. It’s only the two of them, and one of the senior editors clacking away at his laptop in the corner. The morning is shining through the enormous windows, and everything is bright and beautiful. 

“You should have some water, actually, given how much coffee you’ve had already.”

Eddie glares harder, though he doesn’t know how well that comes across. Probably not well, since Mike remains unfazed. He doesn’t look annoyed, not like Eddie worries people will get when he gets like this (ie: loud, snippy, anxious, messy to talk to, messy to look at). He just looks concerned, in that quiet, reassuring way Mike always looks concerned for people, like it’s his silent way of letting them know that he’s worried but things will still be okay. 

It’s starting to work on Eddie enough for him to slowly push his empty mug a few inches away from himself. 

“Thank you,” Mike says, taking the mug over to the sink to rinse it out. Eddie watches him do this, and tries to ignore the nervousness bubbling in his stomach. It feels hot, like magma, and he grimaces. 

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” he gripes, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the countertop. It’s cool to the touch, and feels really nice against his skin. 

“I can,” Mike says, and Eddie can hear him walking back over to the counter. He feels Mike’s hand, warm and steady, on his shoulder, and relaxes a bit into his touch. 

(That was something Eddie had to get used to after a while: touching. Especially with Mike “give me hugs or give me death” Hanlon as a best friend. Moving to New York City taught him more about human touch than the entire first eighteen years of his life ever had, and he is eternally grateful to Mike - and even Stan - for helping him wind his way through that particular path.) 

“Because it was a dumb idea, and I’m good at those?” Eddie asks spitefully, turning his face so he can stay in contact with the chilly counter and also look at Mike, who is watching him with a bemused smile. 

“No,” Mike corrects, with a small eye roll. That’s how Eddie knows he’s being overly dramatic about this. “Because it was a  _ good  _ idea, and you’ve never let one of those pass you by. You guys are gonna make something awesome, and you’re gonna share it with the world, and that’s a fantastic idea.” 

“But we have no - we have no chemistry!” Eddie protests, straightening so he can better gesture to emphasize his points. He is no one if not the Wildly Gesticulating One. “Richie and I - did you  _ see  _ us at the cookout? God, it was so awkward! He just - he knocked over that plant, and he’s so  _ loud _ -”

“Yeah? So are you.”

“Am not!”

“You’re being loud  _ right now _ .” 

Eddie frowns, glaring, though there’s no heart in it; he’s too distracted by the anxious stampeding in his chest. Remembering precisely what happened between himself and Richie at the cookout isn’t helping his nerves in the least, especially the potted plant. He can’t help but wonder how much he should hide before Richie gets to the test kitchen, just to avoid a similar incident. 

“Whatever,” Eddie mutters, shuffling off to prepare his counter-space for the eighth time this morning. “Just - if he accidentally stabs me with a kitchen knife, or, like, slices his own hand in half, or some shit, just know that you facilitated it!”

“Uh huh.” 

“And so, the sudden, like, PG rating on gourmet makes will be on you!”

“I’m sure it will.” 

“Please stop agreeing with me, it’s making it so difficult to get mad.”

“So stop getting mad,” Mike says with a snort, going off towards his own desk and opening up his computer. 

“But that’s the energy that’ll get me through this shit!” Eddie argues. “I need to be angry so I can avoid, like, dying or killing him or something!”

“I think that’s a quote from the incredible hulk.”

Eddie spins around so fast that he nearly loses his balance, hand smacking down (hard,  _ ow _ ) on the counter to steady himself. His mouth is open with the intention to speak, but for a moment his brain stops sending words to it. 

Richie Tozier is grinning in the doorway to the test kitchen, hair curling wildly around his face, in a vibrant green t shirt with a -

“Is that kaiju  _ break-dancing _ ?” 

Richie just grins brighter. 

* * *

  
  


**@trashbandicoot:** today’s the day my good lads!!! #munchappetit

**@sweddie reply to @trashbandicoot:** oh my god iT’S HAPPENING

**@mikesbrownies reply to @trashbandicoot:** you have to tell us who it’s with !!

**@trashbandicoot reply to @mikesbrownies:** a gentleman never kisses and tells my dude

**@testkitsch reply to @trashbandicoot:** omg please we need DETAILS what about the ANTICIPATION 

**@trashbandicoot reply to @testkitsch:** my good sir, pls read the above tweet 

**@hollyhlight reply to @trashbandicoot:** i’ll join your patreon if you tell us who it is

**@trashbandicoot reply to @hollyhlight:** lmao pls don’t waste ur money like that

**@missmartian reply to @trashbandicoot:** if it isn’t illegal to tell them, then tell them please, this is cruel

**@trashbandicoot reply to @missmartian:** only bc u have access to my underwear drawer: it’s a series that involves the production of a nostalgic candy that i now have a fuckin lifetime supply of

**@hollyhlight reply to @trashbandicoot:** oh holy SHIT thank you @missmartian 

**@missmartian reply to @hollyhlight:** only doing my civic duty <3

  
  


* * *

Lunch break creeps up on Eddie faster than he thought possible, and Mike is the one who reminds him of it.

“Hey, I’m, like, crazy busy with this prep for ‘it’s alive’, did you wanna maybe grab my coffee when you’re on lunch? I might have to stay here,” Mike says, popping up behind Eddie and Richie like he’s materializing from the damn void. 

Eddie jumps slightly, but his brain registers Mike’s voice and he calms almost instantly. There’s still always a split second where, when someone’s too close too suddenly, he flinches. It feels bad every time, but Mike and Stan have never called him out on it, and he’s desperately grateful for that. Richie doesn’t seem to notice this, which is also a relief. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, we’ll - oh, shit, is it already one?” Eddie frowns, glancing down at his watch, before he looks tentatively over at Richie. “Yeah, I guess it’s lunch-ish now, so . . .”

“Fran’s, right?” Richie asks, smiling. He’s been smiling non-stop all morning, and Eddie isn’t entirely convinced he’s not insane. “For coffee?”

“. . . yeah,” Eddie agrees slowly, brows pinching in confusion. “How do you know that?”

“Bev told me you guys are there, like, every day,” Richie explains. “And Bill talks about you guys, too.”

Mike stiffens at the mention of Bill’s name and goes “Oh, no, I’ve gotta - I have, a, uh - oven -” and darts off to the other end of the test kitchen. Eddie, Richie, and their video director watch him go. 

“Was that - that wasn’t normal, was it?” Richie asks. 

“No,” Eddie agrees. “It wasn’t.” Then he sighs, stretching his arms out a bit, and eyes the timer on their own oven situation. “We’ve got twenty minutes, for a Fran’s run.”

“Great! I haven’t seen Bill in ages since his brother got to New York, and I really miss bugging the shit out of him.”

“I’m sure you do,” Eddie mumbles.

He sees Richie freeze, and realizes that he’s heard him. Eddie moves to apologize, clarify that it wasn’t meant as an insult (entirely), when Richie just laughs, loud and long, and goes, “Yeah, it’s kinda my thing, isn’t it?” 

The strangest thing about Richie Tozier, Eddie decides, is his willingness to be the butt of the joke. He lays himself out on the rack without the slightest hesitation, laughs along with everyone, and gives the camera a cheesy little wink every time he messes up. He parades his nonsense around like a grand accomplishment, and is more than willing to find himself absurd, which makes it very difficult for Eddie to dislike him. It’s easy to dislike obnoxious assholes who don’t know that that’s what they are; it’s another thing to dislike someone who’s playing up their obnoxiousness as a joke. (Even if it barely feels like one sometimes.)

“Besides, it’s an even trade-off: if I let Bill borrow some of my clout on twitter, then I get to annoy the shit out of him. It’s only fair.”

(Like when he says things like  _ that _ . Eddie still can’t tell if he’s joking, or just a very charming douchebag.) 

The elevator ride down to the ground floor is quiet, just Richie humming a jaunty little tune along to the elevator music, and Eddie staring very hard at the closed doors. He’s having one of those moments where he has to stop and wonder how precisely he got here, things moving so fast Eddie doesn’t realize what’s happening until he’s dived head-first into a situation. 

“So,” Richie says as they step outside into the chilly autumn sunshine, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets, “How do you think the video’s coming?” 

Eddie frowns, not looking at him, and shrugs. “Fine. We haven’t burned the place down or anything, so we’re halfway to a decent episode. Why?” Eddie risks a sideways glance at Richie; his face, frustratingly enough, is unreadable in the glare of the sunlight, brown eyes locked on the fast-approaching red sign of Fran’s. “Do you think it isn’t?” 

“Oh, no, I just -” Richie sighs, and swings open the door of Fran’s. “I don’t wanna fuck up your series or anything, you know? I’d hate to throw you off your rhythm or anything just because your boss made you team up with me.” 

Eddie frowns deeper at this, confusion and surprise mingling in his stomach, beginning to feel a bit like guilt; every moment from that morning where he hesitated around Richie, or was short with him, or reached over to straight up take the knife out of his hand when he started gesturing with it still in his grip - all of this is adding up at lightning speed in Eddie’s head, to form a picture he doesn’t like from this perspective. Is he being unfair to Richie? Should he be putting more trust in him when they worked together? How should he start -   


“Also, your toxic wastes kinda suck so far, so, like, I hope this one doesn’t break your decent streak,” Richie adds with a smirk. 

Eddie’s concerned frown morphs into a stiff scowl, and he hurries past Richie and into Fran’s without another word, ignoring the mixing guilt and newfound irritation swirling inside him. Richie Tozier being an obnoxious douchebag under his thin veneer of charm and jokes feels like the world’s worst punishment for Eddie, though he can’t figure out what he’s being punished for. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**@eddiek:** so today was the kind of test kitchen day where you have to go home and make a microwave meal just to remind yourself that you can in fact make food

**@testkitsch reply to @eddiek:** oh my god is it the gourmet makes vid w @trashbandicoot???? how bad is it going ?????

**@bonappletea reply to @eddiek:** omg is richie being a giant child??? 

**@sweddie reply to @bonappletea:** omg do you think there’s any tea from today?? will gourmet makes expose richie tozier as a bastard man???

**@bonappletea reply to @sweddie:** didn’t mean it seriously but ok

**@mikesbrownies reply to @eddiek:** anyway have a good day two!! pls ignore all the replies to this tweet!! take care of yourself!! 

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @mikesbrownies:** i like your energy, and your energy alone

**@mikesbrownies reply to @sweetsboyeddie:** <3 <3 <3

* * *

  
  


Richie cannot fucking believe himself. 

“Hey, Stan the Man,” he says, sidling up to the chef in question, who is occupied with a tray of meringues. He ignores Richie, and continues to pipe his desserts. 

Richie coughs, small and awkward, and says again, “Hey, there.” 

When Stan moves, it’s as though each of his muscles are working in perfect sync with each other, not a millimeter of movement wasted; he stills, and turns to stare at Richie with a pinched brow. “What?” 

“I need to ask you something,” Richie begins, and Stan immediately frowns harder. 

“No,” Stan says shortly, turning back to his meringues. 

“But you don’t even know what I’m asking!” Richie protests. 

“I don’t care.”

The test kitchen is dimly lit, and very empty. Eddie had called it a night half an hour earlier, and bid Richie a tight-mouthed goodnight. He’d been wearing that same uncomfortable expression since lunch, and Richie hasn’t figured out why yet, though he has his suspicions. Richie has hung around, playing on his phone, waiting to head home once Bev wraps up in the building next door. 

Approaching Stan had felt at first like a terrible idea, then a great one, then a terrible one again. Richie has only seen him once, at the cookout, but decided that he wasn’t intimidating in the least, despite Ben and Bev’s warnings. He’d spent the entire time sipping chardonnay and glaring daggers at Bill, and nothing about him had screamed “fear me!” to Richie. However, that seems to be different than one-on-one Stan, who is significantly more akin to the legends he’s been told. He pushes forward regardless; Richie’s out for answers. 

“It’s just a quick question,” Richie pleads. He’s draped himself over the counter space next to the tray, and is looking up at Stan with his hands clasped. “ _ Please _ , dude. I just need your opinion on something.”

“Yes, those socks are ridiculous,” Stan says. 

Richie glances down to where his Phantom of the Opera socks are on full display where his jeans are riding up, and he shakes his head dismissively. “You’re wrong, but that’s fine, I wasn’t asking about socks. I want to just - I mean - do you know why Eddie’s so - so -”

“Choose your words carefully,” Stan says, and there’s a hard edge where his voice was bored. He isn’t looking up from his piping, but Richie still feels like he’s being stared down. Stan Uris, it seems, is as powerful as he’s heard (when he isn’t wine-tipsy and griping at Bill at a cookout, that is). 

“I just - Eddie was really - he . . .” Richie swallows, pauses to think, to phrase it right. He doesn’t want to go around shit-talking people, no matter what his instincts tend to lead him to. But the memory of Eddie’s voice, his snapping throughout the day, his brown eyes narrowed at Richie’s jokes . . . Richie isn’t enjoying the aftermath of filming with Eddie Kaspbrak as much he thought he would. 

“He’s a bit . . . uptight. Like, doesn’t-find-anything-funny, wants-to-murder-me-in-my-sleep-for-making-a-joke, kind of uptight. So . . . what’s up with that?” 

“Oh?” Stan pauses his piping, just for a split second, and lets out a soft, derisive snort. “He thinks you’re an asshole.”

“What?” Of all the answers, he was not expecting  _ that _ . 

“Eddie isn’t laughing at your jokes because, and I can guarantee this, he doesn’t think they’re funny. He thinks you’re a douchebag.” 

“How - how can you tell?” Richie asks.

“I’ve known Eddie since college. I know nearly every dumb thing about him. I can tell when he’s upset just based on how his grilled cheeses come out.” Stan pauses again, and smirks, just the tiniest bit. Richie nearly doesn’t catch it. “Also he told me.”

“He was shit-talking me!” Richie exclaims. 

“I mean, can you blame him?” Stan asks. “You were being a douchebag. A minor one, I’ll admit, but still. Charming douchebags irk Eddie more than regular ones, I think - he never likes it when he’s the only person who doesn’t like someone.” 

“So he hates my guts?” Richie asks. This isn’t going at all how he hoped. 

“You said his toxic wastes sucked,” Stan says in response, and Richie almost yells.

“I was joking around! I was just - I mean, like, they were bad, but still - like - I was just teasing him -”

“Eddie . . .” Stan trails off, and sets aside his piping bag with a sigh of frustration. He fixes Richie with an arresting stare, though he looks more tired than angry now. “Look, I’m not going to stand here and give you secret lessons on how to make Eddie like you. All I’ll say is that Eddie isn’t going to know that you’re “just teasing him”, because he won’t take it as a joke. He’ll assume you mean it. Also, your sarcastic tone needs some serious work, besides. It’s almost worse than that accent you kept doing -”

“Ya mean the one that sounds like this?” Richie says, in what is clearly a cockney voice. 

Stan just grimaces. “I still have  _ no idea  _ what you’re trying to do. And Eddie doesn’t know what you’re trying to imply, either. So just stop making fun of him?” 

“Stop making fun of him?” Richie echoes. This might be harder than he thought; Eddie is the kind of person who is desperately fun to rile up. But, he remembers, the cold silence he started giving Richie around lunch was the exact opposite of what makes teasing somebody like Eddie so much fun: there was no reaction, no banter, no exchange. It just felt awkward and angry and stilted. Maybe Stan is onto something. 

“I can’t believe that’s the advice you need to be  _ told _ ,” Stan mutters, turning back to his meringues. “Now, get me the confectioner’s sugar and butter from the pantry.”

“Huh?” Richie says, confused. 

Stan just raises an eyebrow, though it looks less scornful and more exasperated now. “If you’re going to lurk around here, you may as well help me finish these.” 

* * *

  
  


Eddie, unbeknownst to Richie, is on the phone with Bev the moment he closes the door to his apartment. He moves straight for his couch, plopping down and dialing her number. 

“I was gonna leave work and meet up with Richie -” Bev begins, but Eddie cuts her off. 

“Fantastic, then you can kick his douchebag ass for me.”

There’s a moment of digestive silence, then -

“Oh, what the fuck did he do?” 

Eddie sighs, long and heavy (enough that he’s sure Bev can hear him on the other end of the line, because it’s important for her to truly understand the toll working with Richie all day has had on Eddie), and moans “Ugh, what  _ didn’t  _ he do?” 

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Bev quips, and Eddie sighs again, just to let her know how unimpressed he is. “Dude, just - tell me what he did so I know how annoyed I need to be with him later. Please?”

“Your best friend is an absolute  _ douchebag _ ,” Eddie snaps. (He hadn’t been stalling his complaints, Beverly, only amping his way up to the main complaint show.)

Bev just snorts; Eddie can’t figure out what could be so amusing. “Yeah, Richie’ll do that. What’d he do though?”

“He - he just - well - ugh!” Eddie burrows his face into a pillow, furious. Richie has gone and ruined his ability to speak words along with his day. “He’s just - how do you hang out with him? He’s so - he’s obnoxious -”

“Yep.”

“- he’s loud -”

“Yep.”

“- he’s so - he’s so _ annoying _ , and he just gets right on my  _ nerves  _ -”

“Uh huh. Eddie, honey?”

“. . . Yeah?”

“You know you’re kind of just describing  _ Richie _ , right? As in, you know, his essence?”

“Then his essence is repulsive.”

“Fair enough.”

Eddie rolls over onto his stomach, nearly falling off the couch in the process, and sighs for a third time. He can hear Bev sigh back, and hopes it’s out of sympathy and not annoyance. “I just don’t know how you can stand him. He’s - like, I cannot emphasize enough how obnoxious he was, and how - he said my toxic wastes sucked!”

“And did they suck?”

“That’s not the point,” Eddie snaps, flushing slightly. (Sure, he can still find the aftertaste somewhere on his tongue if he concentrates, and it does make him feel like gagging a little bit, but Bev  _ so  _ doesn’t have to know that to understand his point.) 

“Look, dude, you wanna know why I can stand Richie? It’s because he’s, like, a human onion.”

“What?” Eddie asks flatly. 

Bev huffs. “An  _ onion _ . I assume you have some in your fancy kitchen? He’s got layers, you know? Stuff you can peel back just a tiny bit, so that something much nicer peeks through.”

“And him being a total douchebag is a  _ layer _ ?” 

“Yes!” Eddie has to wonder why Bev sounds like she couldn’t be more clear, when what she’s saying is about as clear as dirty dishwater. “If he feels comfortable around you, it’ll sort of just stop.  _ I  _ think you just make him nervous.” 

“So if I get him to be less skittish around me, then he’ll be nicer?” Eddie asks, rolling his eyes. “He sounds more like a cat than an onion.” 

“Whatever metaphor is going to help you to not murder him tomorrow,” Bev agrees. “Now, I have an onion-cat-douchebag to go pick up from your offices, so I will call you tomorrow and will expect to get him back in one piece again.”

“Two pieces?” Eddie asks, half-joking and half-bartering. Bev just hangs up the phone. 

* * *

  
  


Eddie cannot believe his eyes when he gets a look at Richie’s shirt the next day.

“Seriously?” 

Richie just shrugs, grinning, and glances down at his shirt with a laugh. “Is it like looking into a mirror, Eds?”

Eddie tries (and fails) to wipe the scowl from his face, which means that he is mirroring the scowling Eddie Kaspbrak that’s been silkscreened onto Richie’s t shirt. “Where the hell did you even  _ get  _ that?”

“Redbubble,” Richie says. “It’s a magical place.”

“Whatever,” Eddie mutters, turning back to the counter. An onion? Bev might be smart, but clearly she knows nothing about her best friend’s true intentions to become the bane of Eddie’s existence. “And don’t call me Eds.”

“Alrighty, Spaghetti,” Richie agrees with a stiff, mocking salute. 

Eddie wants to face plant into the bowl of fruit juices. 

* * *

  
  


**@eddiek:** how’s everyone feeling today? still have the will to go on? 

**@mikesbrownies reply to @eddiek:** hang in there!! you can kick the ass of this episode!!

**@sweetsboyeddie reply to @eddiek:** listen to @mikesbrownies they’re 100% right!!!! 

**@mikehanlon reply to @eddiek:** just please don’t kill anyone in the kitchen, it’s already a mess in there

**@sweddie reply to @mikehanlon:** oooooohhhhhhhh????????????

* * *

“And now we’re gonna have Mike test - hey, wait!”

Unfortunately, Richie has already popped one of the homemade toxic wastes in his mouth, and is squinting in concentration as he tastes it. Eddie frowns up at him, and Richie turns to smile brightly down at him. The crinkle in his forehead, mouth already opening to jab an insult at him, is why Richie can’t seem to stop riling him up. Eddie Kaspbrak is fucking fun to mess around with. 

(Richie decided last night that if Eddie doesn't like being made fun of, then maybe the best solution is to start making fun of himself instead - and to practice his sarcastic tone in the meantime. Stan's solution of not joking around _at all_ is entirely unrealistic, no matter how good the rest of his advice (and his meringues) were. So far, things are going pretty well, Eddie seeming less on-guard - Richie even caught him snorting at one of his jokes at lunch.)

“Is it any good, you absolute monster?” Eddie asks, and Richie bites down on the candy, the crunch audible even to Eddie. 

He chews slowly, just to drag out the moment of Eddie waiting on his thoughts, and then says, “It’s good as shit.”

Eddie just gripes a quick “oh my god, that’s it?” before giving Mike a sample. But Richie can see the pleased little smirk on his face, and feels his chest lighten. 

* * *

  
  


**@trashbandicoot:** is a love/hate relationship okay if it’s actually just a friendship/playful dislike relationship??? 

**@missmartian reply to @trashbandicoot:** oh my god you’re going to drive me insane 

**@trashbandicoot reply to @missmartian:** yep!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

**@mikesbrownies reply to @trashbandicoot:** you’re going to drive us all insane tbh 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she returns !! it's been so long and i'm so sorry, but here we are <3 <3


	9. brunch & banter with the boys

Let the record show that Richie Tozier does brunch. 

He loves to Do Brunch; it’s fifty percent because of the excuse it provides him with to drink mimosas at eleven in the morning, and fifty percent because no other meal can be “done”. A meal that is also a verb is a concept Richie can absolutely get behind. 

This is why, when Bev pokes her head into Richie’s bedroom and asks “brunch tomorrow?”, he nods immediately without thinking about it for a moment. Brunch with Bev is always a good Saturday, an excellent start to a weekend. 

This is also why Richie at first doesn’t understand why, when he’s getting ready to head out at ten am, Bev is plucking and adjusting and badgering him as he does so. 

“Bev, darlin’, I love you so much, but I didn’t think we had that kind of relationship,” he quips at her as Bev runs her palms down his chest, smoothing out the slinky fabric of his shirt. (It has a pattern of wavy lilac stripes that remind Richie of those weird, artsy lofi pop videos on youtube, and he thinks it makes him look quirky in a way that won’t be misconstrued as Quirky™.) 

“Shut up,” Bev says, rolling her eyes to soften her retort, as she steps back to survey him. Richie spreads his arms wide, rolling with the punches of friendship with Beverly Marsh. “Just trust me, you’re not gonna wanna look like a total idiot today.”

“And why would I ever want that?” Richie demands with a grin. 

He finds his answer thirty minutes later, when he slides into a seat across the table from Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. 

Richie leans over to Bev, who has taken the seat next to him, and whispers conspiratorially into her hair, “The thing is, Miss Marsh, you’ve misunderstood my current approach. I  _ need  _ to look like an idiot in front of Mr. Kaspbrak.” Then, just to make his point, Richie messes with the loose collar of his shirt and musses the back of his hair up a little more. 

Eddie has not looked away from Richie since he and Bev made it to the table. 

Richie realizes this, and grins. 

Bill and Ben arrive a few minutes later, and take the seats next to Eddie, Ben seated across from Bev (Richie thinks this is intentional). They order pre-noon-approved cocktails, Richie taking a few long moments to debate with himself before asking for a tequila sunrise. Eddie frowns.

“You’re going to need tequila at ten thirty in the morning?” he asks; his mouth is quirked in a way that could be amusement or disdain. 

“Only if I'm trying to have fun when I’m out and about with you, Eds,” Richie quips back with a dramatic, clumsy wink. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “One, don’t call me that, and two, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I’m a man looking to have some fun on a Saturday morning,” Richie says. He knows his grin has started to lean into shit-eating, but he can’t help himself, really. “And I’m gonna need some tequila to do it. A me problem, not a you problem, cross my heart.”

Eddie opens his mouth, just as Bev cuts in with an exasperated “He’s trying to sample every drink on the menu at this place. Also he’s a baby and only likes sweet drinks.” 

“That doesn’t make me a  _ baby _ , Beverly,” Richie counters, head snapping back to her. “It makes me sensible.” 

Bev is watching him with an expression so tired that Richie feels a flash of guilt for jumping right into things with Eddie so quickly. He chews on his lip, uncertain for a moment, before he nods towards the door to the patio and says “Do you mind to accompany me to the lavatory, Miss Marsh?” 

Bev raises an eyebrow, but stands regardless. Richie is grateful that at least one person at this table understands his nonsense so intrinsically. 

“Don’t you guys go to different . . .?” Ben’s question trails off as Richie and Bev make their way away from the table, ducking inside the restaurant. Richie sees Bev give Ben a quick, reassuring hand wave before they do, and pockets that moment for future teasing. 

“Okay, so here’s the thing -” Richie begins. He doesn’t get to finish. 

“Are you trying to get a rise out of him?” Bev demands, glaring openly now that she doesn’t have to shield this from anyone else. 

“I’m just - it’s - there’s, like, a balance!” Richie defends himself, hands coming up instinctively. “I swear to god, I’m not gonna push him too far, I won’t be awful, I’ll behave, I just -”

“You better behave,” Bev hisses. “I promised him you wouldn’t be a jerk, okay?”

“You  _ need  _ to stop making promises on my behalf,” Richie whines, as Bev whirls around and starts back towards their table. He follows in her wake, giving Eddie, Ben and Bill a joking little wave as they redescend upon their brunch date. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows and takes a neat sip of his mimosa, watching Richie from across the table. “Quick bathroom break.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient,” Richie says with a lurid wink, and ignores the jab of Bev’s shoe into the top of his foot. 

“Does that just mean you skip hand-washing? Because you may be self-obsessed enough to enjoy carrying around the germs on your dick, but I don’t want them anywhere near me.” 

Ben chokes on his water, and Richie only grins wider. 

* * *

  
  


Eddie isn’t sure how he let Bev convince him that brunch was a good idea. All he knows is that one late-night phonecall with her on Thursday had him picking out his outfit the next night in preparation. God, she’s persuasive. 

So, here he is, convinced and clad in a plain navy button-down and nicely-fitted black jeans. It’s just heavy enough for early September, but light enough that Eddie can feel the slight, chilly breeze drifting through the city. He’s sitting in the corner seat of their reserved table, the first person to show up, and he’s been drumming his fingertips on the tabletop for long enough that they’re starting to go a bit numb. He tucks his hand under his thigh and tries not to focus on the waiting he’s doing, and more on the leaves and the pre-autumn smell of New York (which is just regular New York but with the relieving disappearance of heat-related stink). This is brunch and it will be fine and Richie was promised by Bev to be normal and not a jerk - well, not a jerk at least - and he can handle this. The video went fine. Everything is fine. 

Eddie Kaspbrak knows how to convince himself to be normal. 

Then Bev is giving him a quick hug and sitting on the other side of the table, and then Richie Tozier is in the seat directly across from him and smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks at Eddie and there’s a spark Eddie sees that makes him almost instantly on-guard, though he can’t tell what for. 

“So, drinks? Should we figure out drinks?” Bev asks, practically chucking a drinks menu at Richie, who takes it from her with a roll of his eyes, like he also knows that Bev is intentionally distracting them from conversation. 

Eddie glances down the drinks menu, even though he knows he’s going to stick with a mimosa (why fix a perfect brunch system? mimosa and french toast, done), when Bill and Ben appear. Eddie and Ben exchange hellos and he makes awkward eye contact with Bill that hangs just a little too knowingly before they both greet each other. 

(Eddie hasn’t even thought about having to hang out with Bill post-barbecue, and then going to work on Monday and letting Stan rant about how much he hates his guts. He suddenly realizes just how many problems he’s having at this brunch, and thinks Bev must be persuasive enough to help the CIA.) 

Eddie orders his mimosa, and sips his water while everyone else orders their drinks. Across from him, Richie goes last, and thinks for a moment before asking “A tequila sunrise, please? Thanks.” 

A tequila sunrise? Eddie checks his watch: 10:37 am. He doesn’t know if he should be impressed by Richie’s commitment to the brunch experience, or if he should question his sanity. 

(He does a little of both.) 

“You’re going to need tequila at ten thirty in the morning?” Eddie finds himself asking, watching Richie with a slight frown. He doesn’t know why he asks this, or better yet why he’s baiting Richie into a stupid bickering fest. 

“Only while I’m trying to have fun when I’m out and about with you, Eds,” Richie replies with a wink, and Eddie resists the urge to fake-gag; now is a time for absolute maturity. 

“One, don’t call me that,” Eddie snaps, which is definitely the mature argument he’s going for, “and two, what’s that supposed to mean?” Is he not fun? Can he, Eddie, not be fun while at brunch with his friends? Does he bore Bev, and Ben and Bill? And Stan and Mike, too, secretly? Do people really drink just to deal with him -

“- a me problem, not a you problem. Cross my heart.” Richie is grinning at him, and Eddie is already lining up a retort about him not having a heart, when Bev cuts in, using her words instead of a menu this time. 

“He’s trying to sample every drink on the menu at this place.” She smiles at Eddie, reassuring through her put-upon exasperation, and he is both relieved and also, somehow, disappointed. He was really looking forward to that clapback (although now he wonders if it would even have made sense, it wasn’t fully formed when he opened his mouth). “Also he’s a baby and only likes sweet drinks,” Bev adds, just because she’s the kind of amazing person who will also mock Richie. 

“That doesn’t make me a  _ baby _ , Beverly,” Richie snaps back, looking over to Bev. “It makes me  _ sensible _ .” 

Bev just rolls her eyes in response, but there’s something so playful and knowing about the expression that Eddie feels like only Richie can really see it, can really read her face in that moment. He wonders if maybe that’s where his disappointment comes from sometimes, when he and Richie are snapping at each other and something comes butting in between them, or the quips start to fall short; maybe he wants something like Richie and Bev do, where he and Richie can mock each other and Eddie can make fun of his stupid shirts and his stupid hair and his stupid jokes, but not have to apologize, because Richie is dishing right back at him, and they both  _ know _ . Maybe Eddie wants that, after watching the two of them do it so often.

They vanish from the table, ostensibly to go to the “lavatory”, and Eddie starts concocting his next quip in advance. 

  
  
  


Brunch lasts until almost noon, the five of them ambling their way through their food and drinks and laughing at all of Bill and Ben’s best coffeeshop anecdotes. Bill is halfway through a rendition of his impression of a very upset customer who didn’t understand what a latte was, when Eddie feels Richie’s foot hit his underneath the table. 

_ Like a child  _ . . . Eddie thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. Richie is watching him, completely checked out of Bill’s story, and Eddie almost doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s annoying him. Eddie tries what he usually does when people are ticking him off, which is asking himself what Stan - stoic, comeback-expert Stan Uris, who can silence the most obnoxious soccer moms with the briefest of looks - would do. Stan would keep quiet and not let Richie get a rise out of him, because Stan is smart enough to know that that’s exactly what Richie is looking for. But his foot is tapping away, a steady rhythm against Eddie’s shoe now, and Eddie is staring down at the remainders of his french toast and wondering just how disastrous it would be if he reached over and strangled him. (Probably pretty bad.) 

He settles for letting Richie get a rise out of him, if only to satisfy himself. 

“Can I  _ help  _ you?” Eddie hisses across the table, turning a glare onto Richie. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Richie says. He’s smiling again, in that way that makes Eddie kind of hate him but also kind of want to keep going, let Richie egg him on through a bickering-match with that stupid grin. 

“Then could you stop  _ tapping  _ your  _ stupid  _ -” Eddie starts. 

“Nope.” Richie pops the ‘p’ in his reply. Eddie decides he’s leaning more towards the ‘hating’ side of things at the moment. He’s trying to come up with a string of swear words that will get Richie to stop  _ fucking tapping his foot  _ when Richie continues, sounding entirely oblivious to his irritation. “Our video was pretty fuckin’ good, huh?” 

“What?” Eddie asks, confused. Richie foot has stopped its tapping, and he’s having a hard time catching up to wherever Richie’s brain has leapt. 

“Our video, the gourmet makes, dude,” Richie says. He has his cheek propped up by his open palm, and he looks almost dreamy as he talks. He’s still looking right at Eddie though, and Eddie himself can’t bring himself to break the eye contact. “It went really good. I’m glad we got to make it.”

“Even if my toxic wastes sucked?” Eddie can’t help himself from asking spitefully. Now he knows that he’s trying to rile up the situation. He hopes Bev hasn’t noticed; the last thing he wants is to disappoint Bev Marsh. 

“Even if they did,” Richie agrees, nodding solemnly; Eddie can see the slight crack in it though, the little tug at his mouth that always seems to happen when Richie’s telling a joke. “But people really love us, Spaghetti. When’re you gonna come over to Casa Bitchie?” 

Eddie pauses, fork of toast halfway to his mouth, and frowns. “What the hell is  _ Casa Bitchie _ ?” 

Bev snorts, and suddenly she, Ben and Bill have dropped back into the conversation, as though they had been waiting for a chance to do so. Eddie realizes that he stopped noticing their end of the table a few minutes ago, and feels a slight flush creep up his neck in instinctive embarrassment. 

“It’s what we’ve named our apartment,” Bev explains. 

“I just wanna know when you’re gonna reciprocate the collab!” Richie is fiddling with the pink straw sticking out of his (empty) sunrise glass, watching Eddie with glittering eyes. Eddie can’t tell from his expression how much of this is a joke, and feels tired just from trying to decipher that much. “We can make whatever you want from whatever you want, I swear. You can have full reign over my kitchen.” He dramatically makes a cross over his chest.

Bev nods at Richie with a fond smile. “That means he’s serious, by the way.” 

Eddie bites his lip, feeling the eyes of everyone at the table trained on him, awaiting his response. He thinks about properly weighing his options, but discards that thought the second he catches Richie’s eyes again; they look so earnest, so bright in the morning autumn sun.  _ Whatever you want from whatever you want, I swear _ . 

“Fine,” Eddie groans, giving Richie a look that he hopes is placating. “I’ll do it, I’ll come to Casa Bitchie.” His tongue fumbles over the unfamiliar words. He sees the approving look Bev gives the two of them, and feels a flash of warmth. He’s keeping his friendship with Bev intact, that’s all. Things would be weird if he and Richie  _ didn’t  _ collab. 

Then he and Richie look at each other, and Eddie has to turn back to his french toast very suddenly; he thanks god that he doesn’t blush very visibly. 

* * *

  
  


**@trashbandicoot:** soooooo more good things with friends coming your way !!!!!

**@sweddie reply to @trashbandicoot:** omg is this about eddie is this about eddie ????

**@mikesbrownies reply to @trashbandicoot:** nice!!! can’t wait!!!

**@testkitsch reply to @trashbandicoot:** does this perhaps have something to do with @eddiek ???? hmmm????? 

**@hollyh reply to @trashbandicoot:** collab !! collab !! collab !! (i’ve been so hyped for you and eddie to finally do one in casa bitchie) 

**@eddiek reply to @trashbandicoot:** you really can’t sit on something for more than an hour, huh

**@sweddie reply to @eddiek:** !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

* * *

  
  


Autumn in New York has never really struck Richie as overtly beautiful before this year. Maybe it’s because he finally watched You’ve Got Mail (at Ben’s request). Or maybe it’s because Eddie posts photos of the leaves on his walk to and from work every other day, and so Richie’s been given an internet tour of the beauty of NYC autumn every time he logs into twitter and scrolls through Eddie’s account. 

Either way, Richie now firmly believes in autumnal beauty, which is why he has asked Stan Uris to meet him in Central Park, like they’re a couple of absolute tourists. 

After filming, Richie and Stan began vaguely socializing; much more effort was put into this stage on Richie’s part, but that’s okay. Not everyone can be so good at friend-making. Thankfully, Richie more than friendship-builds for the two of them, and has been sending Stan midnight memes for the past two weeks. (Stan has replied to three of them, only two hostile ones, so Richie thinks things must be going pretty well.) After brunch, Richie and Eddie began messaging each other through twitter. This has also involved more effort on Richie’s part, but that is more than okay, because that seems to be the dynamic the two of them have settled into quite comfortably: Richie prompts, Eddie snaps back, and the back-and-forth starts and lasts at least until midnight. This is why Richie has become aware of more than just Bill’s perspective on the Uris v. Denbrough feud - he has started to glimpse bits and pieces of the aftermath in the test kitchen, particularly between Stan and Mike. Stan and Mike, who now haven’t spoken to each other in nearly a month. 

And so Richie, being the amazingly wonderful friendship-builder that he is, has invited Stan to Central Park like a lame fucking tourist, so he can suss out the damage of the situation and properly commit to his role as Switzerland. 

Stan Uris - alternatively Stan the Man, though he hasn’t warmed up to that one (yet) - has met Richie in Central Park with the disgruntled expression of a man who does not like to act like an absolute tourist. 

“Why have I let you talk me into this?” Stan asks, mostly to himself, as Richie hands him a hot apple cider. 

Richie shrugs, grinning. He loves when Stan is grumpy like this - it means he’s in peak Grandpa Mode, which is always fun to see. “Because you just love me that much, man.” 

“Whatever,” Stan mutters, and takes a small sip of his cider. He looks pleased at that, which, honestly, he should; Richie went to a specific fucking cafe for these, and they are good as all hell. Then Stan adds, “I have a better recipe for this,” and Richie realizes that he is a fool to expect anything different. 

“So,” Richie starts. Stan immediately glances at him suspiciously as they make their way down the park path. 

“You didn’t piss Eddie off again, did you?” Stan asks. “Because I can’t fix that for you.”

“No, I - well, I have been pissing him off,” Richie says defensively, “But in, like, a playful way? It’s fun. We banter.”

“You argue.”

“We  _ banter _ . And am I not allowed to just want to hang out with you? My very good friend Staniel Uris?” 

“Your nicknames are fucking awful,” Stan says shortly, taking a neat sip of his cider before continuing, “And Eddie told you about Mike, didn’t he?” 

Richie, with as much dramatic flare as possible, plasters on a shocked expression. “What? No! Eddie would never!” 

Stan just turns to level him with a flat, tired look. It is the expression of a man who doesn’t want to mess around with pretenses, and needs to just relax into himself for a few minutes. Richie decides that he was right to ask him to come to the park: if anyone can loosen Stan Uris up, it’s going to be Richie. 

“I swear he didn’t mean to,” Richie begins again, and Stan sighs through his nose; it reminds Richie of a seething dragon, somehow. 

“Look, I promise, Eddie doesn’t even know I’m butting in -”

“Oh, so you’re aware that that’s what this is?” Stan interrupts with a derisive half-laugh. 

Richie elects to ignore that. “He just messaged me something stupid, and he mentioned that you two haven’t spoken in a while, and I - well, the thing is, Stan, I’m not completely stupid.”

“ _ Really _ ?” Stan asks. God, he is  _ scathing  _ today. 

“I know, don’t ever tell anyone I admitted that,” Richie says without thinking. “But look, I just - brunch was weird, and you came up, and Eddie kind of shrank back - and things were  _ weird _ , and I can piece shit together enough to know that things suck with you right now.”

“Things do not  _ suck  _ with me right now,” Stan replies stiffly. He isn’t drinking his cider anymore, in contrast to Richie, who keeps sipping like he needs to be doing literally anything with his hands to avoid spilling any more of his thoughts on the matter. “I’m leading a culinary workshop at fucking  _ Columbia _ . Bill Denbrough isn’t even -”

“Bill isn’t doing shit at Columbia, I know,” Richie concedes. “But he is hanging out with Mike, which is making Mike not hang out with you, and, I don’t know, I figured if you needed to vent or do shit to get your mind off it, I’d just let you know that I’m - like, I’m fuckin’  _ here _ , you know?” Richie frowns, not looking at Stan, hands tight around his cup. “I thought we were friends, so we can act like friends and do friend stuff like help each other with stupid shitty stuff. Especially if one of my friends is causing the stupid shitty stuff.” 

They have come to a stand still on the path, neither of them quite looking at the other. Then Stan speaks, and it’s oddly raspy. 

“You and Eddie have been texting?” 

Richie snorts after a moment, and nods. “Yeah. I’m pissing him off from, like, a whole metropolis away. It’s incredible.” 

Stan snorts, too. “Incredible. You’d tell me if Bill was talking shit about me, right?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Alright. Walk me back to work.” 

Richie absolutely  _ beams _ . 

* * *

  
  


[A photo of Eddie Kaspbrak, Bev Marsh, Richie Tozier and Ben Hanscom seated at a restaurant patio table, autumn leaves colouring the streets behind them. Only Ben seems to know the photo is being taken, and is smiling and throwing up a peace sign. Bev, Richie and Eddie are all in conversation; Richie looks delighted, while Eddie is scowling and Bev has a hand clapped to her forehead in dramatic despair. Brunch-appropriate alcohol has definitely been consumed.] 

13,567 likes

**bevmarsh** anyway we’re cute, and richie was doing some kind of bullshit here

**richietozier** [tommy wiseau voice] i did not!! 

**bevmarsh** @richietozier i hate you oh my GOD

**benhanscom** @bevmarsh @richietozier richie you can’t lie, we know you were

**testkitsch** @eddiekaspbrak definitely knows you were doing some bullshit lmao 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad banter in this chapter!!! mallow Cannot Write Banter!!!! whoops!!!
> 
> anyway, the next chapter is the collab at casa bitchie, and i am very very excited for that <3 tysm to everyone for reading you're all so so sweet!!!
> 
> if you wanna chat/demand an update/see me do more nonsense hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic


	10. Milk Steak (???)

Eddie believes himself to be a man of at least some patience. It’s a virtue he’s working on, admittedly, but still a virtue he possesses at least some awareness of. That awareness is currently the only thing keeping him from absolutely losing his mind while he sits in the back of a lab in Columbia’s campus, watching his best friend run a culinary lecture while Richie Tozier fidgets incessantly beside him. 

“Remind me again why Stan invited you here?” Eddie hisses, eyes still focused on Stan’s figure at the front of the lab. He’s answering someone’s question now, but Eddie can’t seem to make heads or tails of what it was; he missed the person asking it when Richie leaned down to (probably intentionally!) crinkle his way through every paper he has in his bag. He emerged with a notebook, and Eddie thinks he’s been doodling in it since. His pen scratching is a cacophony. 

“Because we’re  _ very good friends _ ,” Richie whispers back, although he isn’t very good at it. He gets a head turn or two, although nowhere near as many as he did at the start of the lecture when he leaned over to ‘whisper’ a stupid joke about Stan’s cucumber directly into Eddie’s ear. (Thinking about it now may give Eddie hives.)

Eddie says nothing in response to that, just burrows further back in his seat and tries to ignore Richie’s scribbling and foot-tapping. The lecture was meant to end in mere minutes, but somehow holding out that long felt impossible. 

Attending Stan’s first culinary guest lecture was meant to be a show of moral support, but wound up becoming a meeting to hash out the plans for the impending collaboration on Richie’s channel. They hadn’t properly discussed it since brunch weeks ago, although Richie had been hinting at the disastrousness of the recipe alongside the memes he texted Eddie at highly inappropriate texting times. Stan had agreed, upon seeing them hovering outside the lecture hall together beforehand, that they should all get dinner afterwards to plan, though Eddie thought he looked a bit pained at the thought after he saw them whisper-arguing at the back of the room. 

To Eddie’s immense relief, the lecture wraps up quickly and efficiently, in perfect Stan Uris Style, all questions answered with time to spare. Stan remains at the station at the front of the lab, packing up his things and swiftly ignoring as many comments from passing college students as he could. Eddie leaps from his seat, knowing it’s better to rescue Stan from socializing with frat kids sooner rather than later. 

“Dude, that was fuckin’ great!” Richie exclaims, startling a first year girl in front of Eddie. He tugs Eddie along faster with an arm slung around his shoulders, sweeping down the aisles to stop in front of Stan. (Eddie follows Stan’s gaze to Richie’s hand on his shoulder and then back to Eddie’s face, and does not appreciate a nanosecond of it.) 

“Thanks,” Stan says, one eyebrow quirked at Richie’s grin. “Although you knew all that, didn’t you?”

“Nope!” Richie shrugs, hand dropping casually from around Eddie’s shoulders. The loss of contact is startling, and Eddie feels a slight whisper of breeze over his arm; he pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, promising that he’ll start wearing warmer clothes for the fall starting tomorrow, and ignoring every other signal his brain is starting to throw at him. He looks straight ahead at Stan’s slight, amused expression as he talks to Richie. 

“Why don’t we all get out of here? I’m starving,” Richie moans, leading the charge as the three of them started moving out of the lab and off to dinner. 

“Are you literally  _ always  _ hungry?” Eddie shoots back, uncertain why he is so determined to snap at something so innocuous. But it’s Richie, who has been making infuriating mountains out of innocuous molehills presumably since birth, so he does manage to justify it to himself.

“Absolutely, Eds, I am a growing - Bill?” Richie comes to a halt, and so Eddie and Stan both do as well, in the middle of the hallway in Columbia, all eyes trained on the surprised blue eyes of Bill Denbrough.

He’s next to a student with the same untidy auburn hair and delicate nose, who Eddie assumes must be -

“Georgie, what’s up?” Richie says with a laugh that Eddie thinks sounds a bit strained. He gives the younger boy a one-armed hug, and he returns it, brown eyes darting from Richie to Bill to Eddie and Stan, still hanging back as though maybe they haven’t been seen yet. 

“It’s just Geo,” Georgie, or Geo, says indignantly. 

“I’m sure it is,” Richie says. 

Bill is looking right past everyone and at Stan, who looks as though he has remembered that Bill Denbrough is not a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and therefore can see him despite his lack of movement - though he looks as though he hasn’t remembered that Bill also isn’t a very dangerous predator he wants to run away from.

“Hi,” Bill makes out, voice hard as stone. 

“Hello,” Stan says, cold despite the lingering panic in his face. 

“Hi,” Eddie chimes in, although he is largely ignored, aside from Georgie, who gives him a small wave. He looks as lost as Eddie feels. 

“We were just leaving,” Stan begins, face impassive as he straightens himself out; Eddie can recognize his power-walk preparation stance, and readies himself to dart out of this campus like his life depends on it.

“To meet up with Mike?” Bill asks. His voice is acid, and Eddie shrinks in response beside Stan, whose eyes narrow slightly. So much for running away. 

“No. To get dinner.” He replies shortly. Richie is inching away from Bill and Georgie, out of Stan’s way. 

“Interesting,” Bill says. “You’ve gotta be on your way to complain to  _ another  _ manager about  _ horrendous incompetence _ .”

Oh no.  _ Oh Stan, you didn’t,  _ Eddie prays, glancing up at his friend. Stan is still looking at Bill, hard-faced.  _ Oh fuck _ . 

“No, I don’t make a habit of it,” Stan says. 

“Oh, so Fran’s is just  _ special _ ?”

“I’d more say that  _ you  _ are, although I don’t know if I’d use the word  _ special _ .”

“Shit,” Richie mutters audibly. 

Eddie looks at him, and they both grimace as Bill takes a menacing step towards Stan. 

_ Shit _ . 

* * *

  
  


“I cannot believe they were that loud on somebody else’s college campus,” Eddie moans. “God, they must’ve traumatized the girl studying in that classroom.” 

“I think biology was traumatizing her more than a couple’s spat, but God yeah, she seemed spooked.” Richie glances down at him with a grin. “Did you really have to get her something from the vending machine?”

“I felt bad! And please never call that a ‘couple’s spat’ in front of Stan, he might kill you.” 

The two of them are making their way to the subway station, away from the shouting match they had left Bill and Stan in. Georgie had scampered off to his dorm with a roll of his eyes, and the two of them hadn’t even been able to tell Stan they were heading off; he just closed the door on them and continued on with Bill. 

“Hey,” Richie says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Eddie yelps at the tug on his elbow, and pulls Richie to the curb with an apologetic glance to the woman who nearly toppled into them.

“God, could you pay, like, a fraction of more attention to your surroundings?!” Eddie demands, frowning. 

“Why would I when I have you to help me out, sugarpie?” Richie asks with an exaggerated wink, and Eddie’s breath catches embarrassingly in his throat; he takes a step back, yanking his elbow out of Richie’s grip. 

“Whatever,” he says, scowling now. “What is it?” 

“Do you wanna come over and just film the collab now?”

Eddie looks up at him, his wide, hopeful brown eyes, and takes a breath. “What the fuck?” 

“Yeah, I have the stuff for it, mostly, and, you know, fuck it! We aren’t doing anything anyway, might as well? Save our evening and all?”

Eddie’s heart slams against his ribs, and he tries desperately to ignore it and every sensible cell in his brain when he says, “Yeah, uh, sure. Okay.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Welcome to Casa Bitchie!” 

“Jesus, do you have to shout?!”

“Do you?” Richie asks with a snort, as he moves aside and gives Eddie a pathway into his doom, or Richie and Bev’s apartment. He hesitates, just for a second, before plunging into what may very well be his final culinary experience. 

“Eddie!” Bev is just a blur of ginger hair before her arms are wrapped around him, and Eddie lets himself relax into the hug for a moment before they part. She’s grinning down at him, her hair a mess and standing in an old t shirt and powerpuff girls pyjama pants. 

“Hey,” he says, feeling oddly shy. Casa Bitchie isn’t just a new place, but a forbidden one, only seen through his phone or computer screen; his gaze keeps landing on details that give him a dizzying sense of deja vu. 

“What’re you doing here? Not that I don’t want you to come here all the time,” Bev adds, moving back to her position among blankets on the couch, “but weren’t you supposed to go to dinner with Stan? Richie texted me that, like, hours ago.”

“Bit of a mix-up,” Richie explains; his voice appearing from behind him nearly makes Eddie jump. “Stan forgot about his very important plans to physically eviscerate Bill Denbrough in public.” 

“Sounds dramatic,” Bev says with a sigh, scrolling through netflix on her laptop. “And violent.”

“And all so he can get on an episode of Dateline,” Richie says with a melodramatic sigh. “So tragic.” 

“Anyway, we’re gonna make a video, so, like, don’t come in the kitchen - or do, but, you know, clothes on and stuff. Unless you want to get me some extra views . . .?” 

Bev chucks a pillow at him, and Richie catches it with his face. Eddie suppresses a snort at his ruffled expression. “Only if you’re comfortable, Madame Marsh!” 

“Just go make something absurd for dinner,” Bev says with a wave of her hand, her show now chosen. “I want to laugh at you and then be forced into frozen pizza again.” 

“Will do,” Richie agrees, taking Eddie by the hand and leading him into the kitchen. Eddie, in a dazed wash of that odd not-quite-deja-vu, follows quietly, looking around as though in a dream. 

“So, I propose that we make . . .” Richie does a quick, hurried drumroll on the counter, as though he doesn’t want to have to wait another second to tell Eddie. There’s a gleam in his eye that’s making Eddie both excited and nervous, his stomach flip-flopping in a way that should’ve made him start his breathing exercises. Instead, he just watches Richie move about in his kitchen, this space that is so overwhelmingly  _ Richie _ \- from the corny tourist magnets stuck to the fridge, to the kitschy aprons draped over the radiator, to the huge plastic bowl of halloween candy perched precariously on the windowsill, out of view of his usual camera angle. The calendar has Richie and Bev’s appointments scribbled into it, along with smiley face doodles; a copy of Richie’s letter of resignation to the olive garden is taped to the wall below the calendar, with a sparkly  _ Great Job!  _ sticker glimmering on it. Eddie is, despite his best efforts, enraptured. 

“The foods from  _ It’s Always Sunny _ !” Richie holds up his phone, where he’s opened the note app to a list of dishes. Eddie squints.

“Does that . . . does that say  _ milk steak _ ?”

* * *

  
  


**making (and tasting) the it’s always sunny in philadelphia foods**

  
  


[Richie Tozier, in a Superman apron, is brandishing a pair of tongs like enormous crab pincers. Eddie Kaspbrak, in a clearly-borrowed flowery apron, is dodging Richie’s attacks with a deep scowl.]

“What the fuck, Richie?!”

[Richie laughs, turning back to the stove just in time to flip a worryingly grey steak in a frying pan. Eddie watches over his shoulder, standing on tip-toe to do so.]

“I swear to Christ, I am  _ not  _ eating that.”

“But think of the people, Eds! Think of the -”

“- no -”

“- think of the thousands you’d be letting down -”

“- oh my god.” 

[Richie pauses, then looks back down at the steak. He pulls it from the pan, and plates it with all the decorum of a five star chef.] 

[Cut to a close-up of Eddie, frowning at Richie, who is behind the camera. He’s holding a fork out to Eddie, a chunk of “milk steak” stuck on the tines. Eddie wrinkles his nose.]

“I definitely remember saying no.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll do it, see it’s not -”

[There is a choking sound from off-camera, and then Eddie is catching it from Richie’s hand. He turns the camera to catch Richie spitting the milk steak into the sink. Eddie can be heard snickering.]

“Not that bad? Were you gonna say it’s not that bad?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the world's shortest update after three months of college-assignment-induced silence??? sounds about right  
> i am literally so sorry, if it's any consolation i've been dead lmao  
> also is this chapter basically also a preview for an upcoming chapter in the stan/bill/mike fic in this au??? absolutely, so get ready for that   
> tysm for reading i'd eat milk steak for any of you <3 <3 <3


	11. google search: safe, reliable halloween costumes to impress cute guys

**@sweddie:** MAKE ME ?????? @eddiek are you SERIOUS????

**@testkitsch reply to @sweddie:** i mean i don’t ship them (bc real ppl u guys) but seriously, the banter is AMAZING 

**@sweddie reply to @testkitsch:** omg right???? they’re killing me

**@mikesbrownies reply to @sweddie:** just you wait until they have matching halloween costumes or some nonsense, god the possibilities?? endless!!!

* * *

  
  
  
Is this Richie’s proudest moment? Absolutely not. But is it a moment he’s determined to make the best out of, to prove the mettle of his character by persevering through dark and tumultuous times? Why yes, yes it is. 

“It’s a fucking Halloween costume, relax.” 

Richie practically squawks at Bev, whose unsympathetic face is peering at him over the back of the couch. She’s been watching him pace and mutter for nearly ten minutes, and has finally paused her movie to chastise him for being ridiculous. 

“You’re a fashion-person, like, professionally! You of all people should know the importance of a good outfit!” 

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” Bev says with a one-shouldered shrug. She drapes her arms over the couch to haul herself up a few inches; when she settles more comfortably facing him, Richie knows he’s got the one person focus group he needs. “But even I know that a Halloween costume isn’t going to be picked apart that much, especially by grown adults at an adult Halloween party. It’s not that big a deal.”

“A Halloween costume is representative of a person’s entire creative spirit!” Richie protests. He’s doing a lot of hand-gesturing, he realizes, and drops them to his sides hastily. 

“Why don’t you just ask Eddie what he’s going as, and then you can figure out something to coordinate with his or something?” Bev scoffs at Richie’s sudden bout of defensive spluttering. “Oh, come on, we both know that it’s Eddie’s opinion you care about.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t care about everyone’s opinion, literally all the time,” Richie shoots back. 

“Touche,” Bev says, flopping back into her couch crease. “You sure do that.” 

“I just . . . I don’t want to freak him out, alright?” Richie shrugs, turning back to the laptop he had abandoned, perched precariously on the edge of an unused dining table. The harsh colours of the Party City website burn his corneas a bit as he scrolls down the seemingly endless list of costumes that are Not Right. 

“He won’t get freaked out,” Bev promises. Richie snorts, and he can hear her sigh slightly behind him. “Okay, so he’ll be a bit freaked out. But it could be cute. Like, he’ll freak out because he likes you? And wants to impress you?” 

“Or he’ll freak out because two friends - yes,  _ friends _ -” he snapped, when Bev let out her own disbelieving snort, “- who have only known each other for, like, two months, don’t wear matching costumes!” 

“Sure they do. Dude, we wore matching costumes the third time we hung out.” 

“Yeah, but we were in college! People three months into college are just that desperate for friendship my dude.” 

“So, if you’re not gonna ask him because you’re being a dumbass -” Richie flips Bev off, even though he knows she can’t see him over the back of the couch, “- then what’s your game plan? Go as a cute vampire?” 

“Why would ‘cute vampire’ be my default costume to seduce Eddie?” Richie asks, baffled. 

He can hear Bev’s smirk in her reply. “He hasn’t mentioned his  _ Twilight  _ phase?” 

“. . . No?  _ No _ .” 

“Oh my god, do not call him,” Bev says suddenly, shooting up from her couch crease to glare at him. “I know that voice, and you can’t tell him I told you. I want Eddie to trust at least one of us.” 

“And you want that to be you?” 

“I need someone to brunch with like a normal person.”

“You’re so selfish,” Richie sighs, turning back to his laptop. He starts typing instantly, knowing exactly what he needs to look up, and he hears Bev pad over to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder and groaning. 

“Christ, Richie, your hubris will kill you one day.” 

“I know.” 

* * *

  
  


Miles away, tucked away in his apartment with Mike and a bottle of white wine, Eddie is panicking about his Halloween costume. 

“I’m sure Richie doesn’t care,” Mike tries to reassure him. 

“Richie Tozier? Doesn’t care about a Halloween costume? Doesn’t think of them as, like, the most important impression a person can make on another person?” Eddie retorts. He’s clutching the stem of his wineglass like a lifeline, notices, and carefully sets it down. 

Mike’s mouth quirks to the side, and he looks a little uncertain. “Yeah, no, that’s fair. Shit.” 

Eddie claps a palm to his forehead, trying to will away his headache before it properly begins. He thinks he can still resort to that, rather than searching his medicine cabinet for advil. Years after the peak of his hypochondria, and he still can’t tell the difference between a real headache and his imaginings of one, leaving him stingy with his use of medications. But this one is starting to feel real, and he knows it’s stress-induced (a.k.a. the worst kind). Eddie rubs the space between his brows, sighing. Fucking Richie Tozier, stressing him out, as per usual these days. 

He hasn’t been on twitter much recently - or in the youtube comment sections, or his instagram comments. Everywhere he looks, it seems there’s another reminder of his time in Casa Bitchie, laughing at Richie while he chokes on some milk steak (which he deserved, honestly), trying to escape while Richie ruffles his hair more and more, until he’s fluffier than a pomeranian by the end of the video. People asking for the next collab, people talking about how adorable they are together. Eddie can’t escape screenshots of Richie, which he scrolls through late at night when he’s sure even god isn’t watching, grinning from ear to ear, his glasses askew, his hair a mess, three very noticeable freckles visible on the tip of his nose. Sometimes, when he’s looking at those pictures, Eddie thinks about kissing Richie on the nose, really quickly, like he’s planning a surprise attack.  _ If I moved fast enough, laughed hard enough after, maybe he wouldn’t think . . . _

Now, with Mike and his wine and his headache, Eddie sighs again. 

“You’re lucky you only have to impress people who don’t give a fuck about Halloween,” Eddie gripes. 

“‘People’? Who is ‘people’? Who am I trying to impress?” Mike asks, laughing; Eddie’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. If he has to be up front about his disastrous love life (Eddie cringes internally at the phrase, unused to the feeling of it), then Mike is going to have to do the same. 

“Mike, you seriously  _ cannot _ lie. I’m talking about the baseball-shirt-wearing-frat-boy and the most anti-Halloween person any of us know -”

“I thought we were talking about  _ your _ love life?” Mike shoots back, glaring. 

Eddie flushes, taking a long sip of wine. “Whatever. Wouldn’t call it that.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Mike says. “And maybe you should be a bit nicer to me, because I have the inside scoop on Richie’s Halloween opinions.”

“You do? How?” 

Mike’s head tips back in a shout of laughter, and he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie, abandoned on the arm of the couch. He waves it in the air like a long lost treasure. “I have Bill’s phone number. So if you promise to stop insinuating -”

“I’ll never insinuate again,” Eddie says. He clears his throat at Mike’s knowing grin, his cheeks still warm. “This means nothing, but I need these answers. For no reason. That doesn’t really matter.” 

“Uh huh . . .” Mike is already calling Bill, who picks up the phone with a confused, “Hey?”

“Uh, hey, Bill,” Mike says, and now it’s Eddie’s turn to snicker at the nervous hand he has on the back of his neck. Mike glares at him, but continues. “Eddie’s here, and he has some questions about Richie and Halloween costumes.” 

There is a beat of silence, and then -

“I’m glad at least one of you is willing to just man up and ask for help, oh my god. Bev is gonna be so freaking happy.” 

Eddie flushes all the way down to his toes. 

* * *

  
  


Halloween parties have never been Eddie’s forte. They feel too much like frat parties, no matter where you have them, because there’s something intrinsically frat-like about Halloween party aesthetics. The red plastic cups, the bad drinks, the costumes that are almost always more about heteronormative sex appeal than anything else, the inexplicable presence of strobe lights. And because Eddie and frat parties have never really mixed, Eddie and Halloween parties have had a rocky relationship. 

But at least this one has good punch. Eddie would know, as he’s had three cups of it. 

Mike is next to him, grinning from ear-to-ear at something Bill has said. Bill is laughing outright, and he puts a hand out to run up Mike’s forearm, and Eddie takes another gulp of punch. There’s definitely cranberry juice in there, but the flavour profile is so chaotic that Eddie can’t make out much more than that. He takes another sip. He wishes Mike and Bill would go somewhere to make out already, and stop showing off their togetherness in front of him. 

He’s been at this party for two hours, and there’s not been any hide nor hair of Richie Tozier seen. 

Did he mention that he’s dressed up as a pikachu? 

It’s a dumb, lazy costume, only some red face paint swirled on his cheeks and a bright yellow hoodie borrowed from Bill with antenna that flop down over his face when he puts the hood up, because Richie Tozier is dumb and lazy and doesn’t come to Halloween parties when he says he will, even when Eddie dresses up like an idiot for him. 

He chucks his empty cup into the garbage bag nearest to them, and taps Mike on the shoulder. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll see you guys at work tomorrow. Not feeling well.” 

Bill looks like he’s about to argue, but Mike cuts him off and nods at Eddie. There’s a sympathy in his face that Eddie doesn’t really want, so he looks down at his shoes. They’re probably a bit sticky, and thinking about that is upsetting enough to be a decent distraction. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he hears Mike say, and Eddie silently promises Mike a batch of really fattening, good homemade meatballs sometime soon as he turns and leaves without another word. 

He starts making his way to the door of the house, which has been rented out by someone for this party. Why they’d bother is beyond Eddie. 

He steps outside, the crisp autumn air a welcome chill on his warm face. Eddie stands by the sidewalk, where partygoers spill out onto the street. He takes a breath, then another, and then another, and tries to keep doing that until he feels a bit better. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe he misunderstood things. 

But the crinkled paper in his pocket doesn’t make him think that when his fingers clutch around it. He withdraws it, staring at the scribbled handwriting like it might be a map, leading him back to where this line of thought made sense. He wants it to make sense again. 

_ Eds _ . It starts with a nickname he never asked for, which feels appropriate. The rest of the dumb, joking fanmail Richie had sent him is ridiculous, meaningless fluff, talks about Eddie’s pretty hair and his snickerdoodle recipe. It’s lined paper covered in stickers, most of them unicorns. But that first word still catches Eddie’s eye.  _ Eds _ . 

And then he doesn’t show up. 

Eddie shoves the paper back in his pocket, and starts marching up the street. He’s Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, and he knows heartbreak. He will not let this become that. He’s too smart for that kind of self sabotage. 

* * *

Richie and Bev are sprinting from the L-train. Bev doesn’t want to be sprinting, but there’s no talking Richie out of it, and damn it she needs to see this mess in person when it goes down. 

“I - cannot -  _ fucking  _ \- believe -” Richie pants as they come to a stop - well, as Bev yanks him to a stop at a red light, her small hand fisted in the back of his jacket. “That we’re - late. Christ.” 

Bev is about to wheeze something unpleasant at him when the light turns green, and suddenly they’re off again, running through the streets of New York like characters in a stupid rom com. 

They skid to a halt outside the party, staring up at the house as they lean over to catch their breaths. Bev wants to strangle Richie a little because of the stitch in her side, but that same stitch is stopping her from committing that murder. Richie is already making his way up to the front door. 

Richie weaves his way through the swaying crowd of the party, strobe lights casting odd shadows everywhere he looks. He can’t seem to make out anyone’s face, and for a moment he wonders if this is a nightmare: he’s running late, it’s dark, everything looks confusing, he can’t find Eddie. A jolt of panic rises up in his chest for a moment, before it’s followed by another as a hand clasps around his forearm. 

Richie whips around and comes face-to-face with Bill, who’s standing just in front of Mike, who is watching Richie with a furrowed brow that Richie is having a hard time deciphering. 

“Dude, where have you been?” Bill asks, letting go of Richie’s arm. There’s something worried in his voice that sets alarm bells off in the back of Richie’s brain, but he still hasn’t caught his breath from all the sprinting, and he barely registers the concern as he looks past Bill at Mike. 

“L-train, late, you know,” he pants, waving a hand at Bill’s question. “Where’s Eddie?” 

And now he can see what Mike’s furrowed brow means: he’s disappointed and maybe even a bit angry. Richie can tell from the way Mike says, “He left.” It’s clipped in a way that barely sounds like Mike. 

_ Shit _ . It takes a full four seconds for Richie’s brain to catch up with Mike’s statement, and then he’s wheeling around and heading right back for the door. He passes Bev on the way, who gives him a light smack on the shoulder when they meet. 

“Where the hell are you going?!” she demands over the music. 

Richie shrugs. “Eddie left. I’ll see you at home.” 

“Oh, is that how it is?” Bev asks, though he can tell she’s joking; she gives him a shove towards the door, grinning. “Go dazzle him with your dumb costume!” 

Richie doesn’t even stop to salute Bev, just bursts out into the street again, the brisk night air relieving on his warm skin. 

Now where would Eddie Kaspbrak go? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i'll write longer updates !1!" she says, immediately realizing that she needs too much short term validation for that
> 
> lmao anyway we're back !! the next chapter is already in the works, and we are making Strides in this slow burn babey!!! i may have gotten a little too romantic on eddie's part in this one, but you know what? i think that's just fine
> 
> anyway thank you for reading, hopefully i'll have the next chapter up soon, love y'all <3 <3 <3


	12. eddiek: *you're

Eddie Kaspbrak, as it turns out, would go to an Italian place up the street for comfort food take out, and then sit on the subway with a styrofoam container of pasta puttanesca and garlic bread warming his lap. He pulls the hood up over his head, ashamed of breaking those most sacred of subway laws (no garlic or fish on the subway, come on Eddie), and one of the antenna flops into his face again. He doesn’t bother to move it. 

He’s halfway home on the ferry when he realizes that he might be wallowing by accident. 

So Eddie steps into his apartment, cracks open a canned gin and tonic, and leaves his take out on the coffee table. He will not wallow. He will not let that happen. He is Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, and he knows exactly how to fix this situation. 

He gets started on a batch of meatballs for Mike. 

Eddie sheds the pikachu hoodie, trying not to think about it as he chucks it onto the couch where he can’t see it from the kitchen. He’s working with frozen meat, which isn’t ideal, but he knows Mike won’t mind. The rhythm of chopping scallions and apples while the pork thaws in the sink is too comforting for him to think too much, so he doesn’t. Eddie puts on a podcast - a nice, calming one, talking about whales or marine biology or something, he doesn’t one hundred percent follow - and chops away to his heart’s content. 

Well, not his heart’s  _ actual  _ content. That would be with -

Eddie furiously whips out another apple to dice up. 

* * *

Meanwhile, Richie is sprinting. Again. He’s also wondering if he should start doing more cardio, given how much sprinting seems to be involved in the wooing of Eddie Kaspbrak. 

He bypassed the subway, not trusting it after it had betrayed him so egregiously earlier that night. But now he has no choice but to wait on the ferry, since swimming across the Hudson River seems more likely to kill him than not. (Also, Eddie would never let him into his apartment if he smelled like the Hudson. And Richie really,  _ really  _ wants Eddie to let him into his apartment.) 

He leans restlessly over the railing, staring down into the murky, dark current below the boat. He kind of can’t believe how badly this night is going. This isn’t how things were supposed to go: he was supposed to turn up at the party, and Eddie was supposed to see him in his moody vampiric glory and be so dazzled by the sight that he might do something radical, like let Richie get him a drink or even stand close enough for their elbows to touch. 

Now, he’s just hoping that he isn’t too late to get Eddie to speak to him. 

* * *

  
  


**@mikehanlon:** Happy Halloween everybody!!!! make sure to drink responsibly but also have fun!!! 

[Attached to the tweet is a photo of Mike Hanlon, his arms draped around Bill Denbrough and Beverly Marsh. They’re all laughing, and Bev is clearly smiling at the person behind the camera.] 

**@mikesbrownies reply to @mikehanlon:** oh my god are you and @billdenbro in matching costumes???? 

**@waveyyy reply to @mikesbrownies:** holy shit i think they are

**@testkitsch reply to @mikehanlon:** where’s the mike/eddie/stan group costume y’all said would happen this year???

**@mikesbrownies reply to @testkitsch:** better question: where’s eddie and stan?? 

**@munchylad reply to @mikesbrownies:** and richie is also missing??? Hmmm

* * *

  
  


Eddie is halfway through combining the meatball ingredients when he hears the first rap on his window. 

The sound startles him, and for a moment he thinks it might be evil trick-or-treaters trying to up their Halloween anti by egging his entire apartment complex. It’s certainly a ballsy move. But, just as soon as his begrudging respect for these imagined pranksters appears, it vanishes again - because when Eddie peers out of his window, he sees the arm of a tiny figure on the street below swing, and another chunk of gravel strikes his window. 

Eddie jumps back, startled again, and then whips open the window as fast as he can.

“What the fuck?!” He calls angrily down at the figure, who is staring up at him. There’s something familiar about the set of their shoulders, the lankiness of their (admittedly decent) throwing arm . . .

“I need to talk to you!” Richie Tozier yells up at him from the street, and Eddie’s heart thumps painfully for a moment. “Can you let me up?!”

He considers just closing his window and going back to his meatballs, but Eddie knows that if Richie is anything it’s persistent, and the last thing Eddie needs right now is a shattered window. So, not trusting himself to speak, he furiously gestures for Richie to come inside the complex’s entrance, and goes to buzz him in from the small panel near his front door. 

The knock on his door is so quick after this that Eddie wonders if Richie sprinted up the stairs. 

He takes a moment before opening the door to breathe, and smooth out the front of his t shirt. He’s conscious of the state he’s in: open gin and tonic can on the counter, takeout on the coffee table, slippers on his feet, hands still smelling of meatball ingredients. But the prospect of having Richie in his apartment is too distracting for any of that to be of too much consequence. 

Eddie opens the door, and Edward Cullen is standing in the hallway. 

Well, a poor simulacrum of Edward Cullen is standing in his hallway, bouncing from foot to foot like a nervous middle schooler waiting to be let into the principal’s office. Eddie kind of can’t believe what he’s seeing: Richie’s hair has been slicked into an odd, off-kilter coiffe, too long to be properly styled that way, and he’s decked out in an all-black-and-grey ensemble that makes him look almost unrecognizable, skinny jeans and all. His skin glimmers with what’s clearly a shit ton of highlighter, and Eddie hopes Bev gave Richie permission to steal as much of it as he probably did. 

“Like what you see?” Richie asks with a nervous laugh, giving himself a full-body gesture. 

Eddie goes to close the door and Richie frantically sticks out his foot, shouting, “Wait, no, I’m joking!” 

Eddie pauses, giving Richie another once-over. “You talked to Bev.” It’s not a question, and the possibilities running through his head right now are making his stomach flutter uncomfortably. Mostly situations where Richie wanted Eddie to like him so much that he was willing to dress up as a brooding, sexy vampire from a YA novel. 

“I did.” Richie smiles at him, and it’s so bright that Eddie has to force himself to maintain eye contact. There’s something radiant about Richie’s positivity that makes it difficult to stay angry while looking at him. “Do you, uh - do you like it?”

Eddie thinks for a long moment about whether or not  _ yes  _ or  _ no  _ was a more condemning answer. Deciding against both, he swings the door open completely and nods for Richie to come inside the apartment. “Just - take your shoes off.”

“Yessir.” Richie slips off his boots, and suddenly Richie Tozier is standing in Eddie’s apartment, dressed like Edward Cullen, and Eddie’s hands definitely smell like raw pork. “Nice place, Eds.”

_ Jesus fucking Christ _ . 

* * *

Richie can’t believe his luck. Eddie opened his window - he hadn’t been able to get inside, and realized quickly how hard apartments were to get to without permission - and let him inside and didn’t close the door on him when he inevitably opened his mouth and said something stupid. And now he’s standing inside Eddie’s apartment, and he’s taken his boots off, which means he’s definitely not just stopping by. This is a Hang Out. They’re Hanging Out. 

Eddie’s got a mess spread across his kitchen counter, and half a tray of homemade meatballs rolled neatly. 

“Oh, nice! Is that apple?” Richie goes to look into the bowl of meatball-stuff, when Eddie shoos him away from the counter. 

“Yes, it’s apple - it’s Mike’s favourite recipe.” 

“So . . . you left a Halloween party early to come home and make meatballs?” Richie eyes the opened can of gin and tonic on the counter, and then darts his gaze back to Eddie’s before he notices his noticing. If Eddie wants to drink on Halloween Eve, that’s none of Richie’s business. 

Eddie shrugs, leans awkwardly on his elbow on the edge of the counter, and then stands up straight again. His hands are moving like he’s too nervous to put them anywhere. “I guess. Felt like it. You know.” 

“Yeah, I know the importance of a good meatball sesh,” Richie nods sagely. 

“How’d you get here so quickly?” Eddie asks, turning to adjust the bowl of meatball-stuff. Richie can’t see anything wrong with the position it was in, but decides to ignore this, too. 

“Oh, you know, I was an Olympic sprinter in a past life, wasn’t too hard.” 

Eddie lets out a brief chuckle, and Richie nearly does a happy dance in response. Eddie’s nervous fidgeting is less cute and more worrying; all he wants is to coax back out the irritable, sarcastic Eddie he saw a mere week ago. 

“Sorry about being late to the party, L-train was stupid late.” Richie drops this explanation without an invitation from Eddie, needing it to be out in the world. He can’t go another minute with Eddie thinking he would intentionally ditch him, especially on Halloween. If Richie can’t spend Halloween with a cute guy in dumb costumes, then what’s the point of his favourite holiday? 

* * *

Eddie glances up at Richie as he fidgets with the baking sheet, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. The L-train. Of fucking course. Richie -  _ and Bev _ he corrects his train of thought - wouldn’t abandon him to some dumb Halloween party without explanation. God, maybe this is why he hasn’t gone on a proper date in nearly a year and a half. 

“Oh, cool. Yeah, I wondered where you guys were.” That’s it, Kaspbrak, play it casual. He turns to face Richie, and his elbow knocks the entire baking sheet to the floor. 

“Shit!” Eddie drops to his knees, moving to salvage what he can of the raw meatballs. Richie drops, too, and scoops up a few that hit the floor next to the tray. Eddie shakes his head. “Ruined.”

“Five second rule!” Richie protests, and Eddie makes a face. 

“Ugh,  _ no _ . Raw meat touches the floor? It’s dead to me.”

“Technically it’s already dead . . .”

“Shut up,” Eddie replies with a snort, clambering to his feet with the baking sheet in his hands. Four meatballs of the dozen or so have been saved. “Fuck, I ruined this batch.”

“I still maintain that these are safe,” Richie says, holding up the three in his hand. “But we can always make more.”

“You wanna make meatballs with me?” Eddie asks, taken aback. “It’s Halloween. Aren’t you going back to the party?” 

“Nah, Bev can handle it without me. I think she brought a sort-of-date, anyway.” Richie winks at him, and Eddie can’t stop the half-smile that tugs at his mouth. “Anyway, any excuse to have a -”

“If this is a balls joke, just know that it will be your ticket out of here.”

“It wasn’t!” Richie protests, frowning dramatically. “I was gonna say that I love any excuse to have a  _ ball _ er night!”

Eddie pauses, studying Richie as he awaits judgement in his kitchen, holding the filthy meatballs he tried to rescue for Eddie’s sake. He came here all the way from the other end of the city, ditched a Halloween party, dressed up as a vampire, and offered to help make meatballs, all for Eddie. Without his glasses, Richie’s eyes are smaller, oddly more in proportion with his face, but still gleam in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach flip. 

“That was awful, get out.” 

“Aw, c’mon!” 

* * *

  
  


[A photo of Eddie Kaspbrak in his living room, wearing a Pikachu hoodie that’s a little too big for him. The antenna flop awkwardly over his face, and he’s frowning intently at the camera.]

14,567 likes

**themunchlad** i begged him to pose for this photo for like two hours, your welcome

**eddiek** *you’re

**eddiek** and it was more like four hours, i’m not that much of a push over

**bevmarsh** oh my god 

**bonappp** oHMYGOD

**taylorwill** dude this is the cutest thing wtf

**mikehanlon** can’t believe i’m saying this, but thank god you got eddie into that pikachu hoodie

**billdenbro** @mikehanlon i wish i’d lent him a onesie instead tbh

**eddiek** @billdenbro you’d be a dead man 😇

* * *

  
  
“So, meatballs?” 

Richie waits until after the Pikachu hoodie photo to ask about this, because he wants to prioritize his tests of Eddie’s patience. Somehow, around midnight when he and Eddie are waiting for the last tray of meatballs to come out of the oven, it seems easier to ask him questions like this. 

“Hm?” Eddie glances up from his phone, and Richie smiles when he sees the instagram post that’s open on the screen. Eddie closes it, and Richie smothers his smile, though he’s sure he does a poor job of it. He already can’t wait to read whatever snarky nonsense Eddie wrote. 

“Meatballs. Just wondering if everything’s okay?” 

“Why would meatballs be indicative of something bad?” Eddie asks, though Richie notices the way his gaze flits away from Richie’s when he speaks. 

“Just . . . you know. Time consuming. It’s Halloween. You left a party to make them. Just wanna make sure this isn’t because of -” 

“Because of you?” Eddie’s boldness takes Richie by surprise, but Eddie just snorts. “No. A little. Not too much. Don’t worry about it.”

“Too bad, already worried.”

“Why?” Eddie’s brow is furrowed, and there’s a note of desperation to his question that catches on Richie’s heart, a sharp edge. “Why would you worry about me?” 

Richie pushes his (now empty) can of gin and tonic aside to scoot across the floor of Eddie’s kitchen towards him, sits as close as he can without it being weird. That being said, Richie isn’t a great judge of weirdness on the best of occasions, so he does still sit definitively in Eddie’s personal bubble. Eddie doesn’t move a muscle. Richie plants his hands on the floor, on either side of Eddie’s crossed legs. 

“Because you make fun of me with Bev, and you’re funny, and you make other people meatballs when you’re distressed because you’re nice in the strangest fuckin’ ways. And I happen to like you, and I also happen to worry about people that I like.” 

Eddie’s flushing, and Richie wants to touch his cheek, feel the warmth of his blush under his fingertips. He stays still, just looking at Eddie, grateful for the slight rush of the g&t. “I also have a theory, that you worry about everyone and everything all the time. And I think somebody should worry about you worrying that much, so I’m volunteering. That okay with you, Eds?”

Eddie nods, a barely perceptible movement, and Richie sits back, reclining on his hands as he shifts away from Eddie. “Cool.”

“Cool.” Eddie’s voice is pretty small when he finally speaks, and he leans back against the cabinets behind him. “Did you . . . I mean, it’s pretty late. Did you wanna maybe stay over?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to crash on that couch since I laid eyes on her - nothing would make me happier.” Richie grins at him, and he’s relieved to see Eddie roll his eyes, a shy smile inching across his face. 

* * *

  
  


**@missmartian:** anyway @billdenbro if u want ur hoodie back, i know who has it hostage

**@billdenbro reply to @missmartian:** no fucking way 

**@testkitsch reply to @missmartian:** dude, do you post this stuff just to torment us all???

**@missmartian reply to @testkitsch:** yes 💅💋💕💕

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she returns!!!! finally resumed inspiration for this fic, and hopefully the next update won't take so long oh my god. i am genuinely really sorry about that you guys <3 <3   
> anyway i love these nerds, and i promise that first kiss will come soon i promise i promise  
> tysm for reading and sticking with this story, even as i disappear for months at a time bc of school and also other fics i get distracted by <3 <3
> 
> hmu on tumblr @starmunches if you wanna yell about anything, or @mallowswriting if you want to see the reader inserts/drabbles i'm writing on there

**Author's Note:**

> i promise i'm still 100% committed to my holiday fic lmao, but i couldn't get this idea out of my head (also i love claire saffitz). so here??? this will definitely be expanded, and all the lads will be featured, but for now here pls just take my nonsense (also hey might change the title bc it's Bad) 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if u wanna tell me to get my shit together and only have one wip at a time


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